Παρασκευή 31 Οκτωβρίου 2025

THE NEXT DATE: A SHORT STORY BY DR JERNAIL SINGH ANAND

 



THE NEXT DATE -Short Story

Dr Jernail Singh Anand


After spending a life time in the company of Babas, who always preached against alcohol and bad habits, [don’t ask me whether they themselves acted on their own advice or not], and serving in the ‘deras’ [holy places] for a lifetime, I remember how I impressed some other people also, by telling them some inflated truths [truth if inflated is also an untruth], so that when they joined, and became followers of the Baba, the Baba then conferred on me the title of a Group Leader [Chhote Sahib]. There were thousands of Chhote Sahibs, who were working for the Baba.

There may have been many things going amiss, but I was lucky I did not see anything. And as a result, I had a peaceful death, and after serving the Baba and the people, I was sure God will house me in a special cell in Heaven.

On reaching the assembly waiting for the judgement, with Dharamraja listening to each one’s historic deeds on earth, I found they paid no attention to my titles. But I was sure to be admitted to Heaven on the basis of my hard work, and sincere followship of the Baba.

When my turn came, they handed over to me a charge sheet, and I was asked to reply in six months. During those six months, I was to stay in the Over Lap, a newly designed place where all good and bad people were made to stay. The charges shocked me.

I was quizzed for every good thing that I had done on the earth under the influence of the Baba, whom I revered as my Guru. Every person had a different charge sheet. I had a fast look at the end of the list where they had mentioned that I was 90 percent eligible to enter Hell.

You were expected to do good, and believe in simply joys, and live in innocence. Why you joined this band of idlers?

Remembering God is no job in itself. On the earth, you were expected to do some good work for your family and the society. You wasted your time in the service of the Baba who is already on our hit-list.

All the work you did in the name of ‘Sewa’ [service] was miscarried. You told lies to unsuspecting people and forced them into the servility of your master. You told deliberate lies. It is unpardonable.

You say you have done ‘simran’ of God every day in the morning and evening. Chanting God’s name, without following holy edicts, is a waste of time. God does not believe in such practices which are hollow.

You have been running round and round your self styled demigod. There are millions like you wasting their time around these gods. The sewa [service] that you are doing is useless if you do not understand the fundamental issues.

The fundamental issue is your innocence. You work for yourself, but at the same time, make sure, your work helps the society, and it does not harm others in any way. If you are aware of it, and act accordingly, you do not need such godmen. You also do not need to read any holy books or even to recite the name of God, if you remember one thing: to be innocent.

Regarding lots of deprivations imposed arbitrarily by these Babas, you are better advised to follow your wishes. If you want to eat non-vegetarian food, or drink alcohol, if you take tobacco and enjoy smoking, if you enjoy bar dances, we have no problem so long as you do not cause any harm to society, your family and even to yourself. There is no sin, no crime if you can feel happy the way you want to live. We have given you this beautiful body. A beautiful mind. A beautiful family. And a wonderful society of men, women, and a life in which there are huge reserves of vegetation, animals, beasts and birds. It is meant for your enjoyment.

Only beware of of Knowledge. It is the gift of Satan to Adam and Eve. Knowledge alone is not enough. It is wisdom which tells you to act when, how, why and when not. What should not be done, is as much your duty, as what should be done.

We give you six months to learn, realize and accept what we want from you.

Dharamraja then said, give him the next date after six months.



Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, with an opus of 180 plus books, is Laureate of the Seneca, Charter of Morava, Franz Kafka and Maxim Gorky awards. His name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. Anand is a towering literary figure whose work embodies a rare fusion of creativity, intellect, and moral vision.












Poem of Manik Chakraborty

 


....

The village soil is calling.
Manik Chakraborty. 

The village soil is calling,
The call of the new day is heard by the fishermen.

The bees are smearing the nectar of the flowers on their entire bodies,
The harvest of the fields is golden rice.
The farmer's heart is awakening.

The boy of the clouds is across the sky
Today, the village boy's colorful kite is flying untied.

A Baul on a path, lost in direction, is running intoxicated by the melody,

Intoxicated by the enchantment of nature,

It is stealing the beauty of its form.

The gentle breeze is swaying in a sweet, melodious rhythm,

The nature that has forgotten its mind today.

It is taking away my mind

©®Manik Chakraborty 








ΛΕΥΤΕΡΗΣ ΣΙΩΜΟΣ "ΕΚΕΊΝΗ Η ΑΧΛΑΔΙΆ "

 

Να τη,εκείνη η αχλαδιά με αχλάδια... Εκείνα τα χρόνια μπροστά μας τα φέρνει, Ανεμίζει αναμνήσεις όλο ουσία, Μυρίζει αγκαλιά Ευωδιάζει φιλιά.. Στο πέρασμά μας, μας ξετρελαίνει Φέρνει χρόνια που μιλούσαν για χάδια .. Θυμίζει τη δική μας παρουσία, Μας τυλίγει,μας πλημμυρίζει σε χάδια. Λευτέρης Σιώμος Κ/39 δ.π.λ.






Ahmed Farooq Baidoon Egypt - Poem

 





(The Light Prodigy & the Woof of Darkness) :
Behold that chirping nightingale with a melancholic psalm,
With processional tumultuous grapes of calm,
That shape of crimson dolly sunken in rubble,
Call it a finale to purity and innocence – a travesty! - No matter such trouble.

Those helpless littles were once mumbling, manipulating and mimicking;
As playwrights dramatizing such wagging ducklings and roaring lions,
The strongholds of world audience and spectators cheered with applause,
It was so, that merriment on the cusp of fruitful realm dreams,

Yet, all-in-all turned into a fearful nightmare,
Nothing but a hoax and fraud of mankind, murdering their austere smile.

Hard to tell such conscientious decline at stake,
No more laughter, jests nor fretful wake,
The theatrical stage was destitute of their existence,
Their abode recline in divine providence.
The whopping crows verily yelled at me,
‘It does serve you right, heartless humanity to obliterate that glee!’
Let-alone a scythe plucking out crumbs of my shreds in the sneer of loss,
Farewell to your vanity – no use such monotonous floss,
I wonder in my solitary altar and burst in torrential contemptuous despair;
Be there enough muckle of time to repent, 
With the advent of bygone children’s jubilant sun lair?
An angelic response – a mighty vanguard of universal chant:
‘You, infinitesimal being, shall doom to inevitable exodus to nowhere – what a grant!’
I begged that leafless oak to cast some shade – as if I were in a squabble and trance,
An epitaph or a pictorial mortuary uplifting my last lines of blooming pedigree proclaimed:
“A miserable loser on the brink, you stroll death ramp of buds – Ain’t you ashamed?” 
I pull my own debris together and form an iconic prodigy of light,
Then – soar up high over vales and rugged strongholds on a scape-route raft flight,
 At least but not last, I find my worthy world shone and bright!
***********
Written by the Egyptian Poet
 Ahmed Farooq Baidoon

Translate in English by the author 







To Greece on "OXI" Day By: Adham Boghdady

 


From the depths of history

the decision came,

when Metaxas received

the ultimatum.

He was told: "Surrender,"

so the reply came, harsh and sharp,

and history wrote it:

"OXI" (No) is the answer and the appointed time!

A "No" that shook

the earth and the mountains,

a refusal like an earthquake that shattered

the throne of tyranny.

So the people rushed forth, soldiers

and women,

like an unyielding rock in

the face of affliction.

***

Oh, the dawn of the Twenty-Eighth,

your lights have shone,

over beloved Greece,

your secrets are revealed.

Today, O Athens,

the flags are fluttering,

flowers are laid on the Tomb

of the Unknown Soldier,

a salute to souls that never

knew weakness.

To those who irrigated the land of

Epirus and its peaks with their blood,

so that freedom remains

at its highest values.

***

"OXI"

is not a word of pessimism,

but the dignity of a nation

immortal forever.

It is the promise that the soul

will not submit,

and that freedom dwells

in the veins.


Adham Boghdady

 

 







Harinder Cheema."The Game Of Life"

 


Harinder Cheema is an internationally renowned and award-winning poet, novelist, author, editor, anchor, and a motivational speaker. A Naji Naaman Laureate, she stands among distinguished global literary voices and has been featured in 50 Memorable Women, Asia by the Stockholm Project. Her work has also been featured in the prestigious Farsala Academy, Greece, and Café Philo, New Delhi. Her poems have been translated into many national and international languages. She is a motivational speaker and has been invited by many  prestigious colleges and Universities of India as a guest speaker. She has also graced various national and international literature festivals and events as a distinguished guest.



The Game Of Life

One day , the Gods thought of playing a game
"The game of Life " was the name
They wanted  a new plaything
That is how the Earth came into being
Then they wanted some pawns
That is how human beings were born
The complex story of birth, death and rebirth
For Gods , is a game on the chessboard of Earth
We are constantly moving on the black and white squares
Daring challenges here and there  
They watch us carefully with fingers crossed
As they want humanity to win at any cost
But in this game of evens and odds
We start fighting in the name of Gods
If the  Journey of Life , is  the Creator's game
Then let's not put our Master to shame
Let the devil show all it's might
But in the name of Gods, let's not fight
Let's not get lured by the evil Satan
Repeating the story of the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden
Let's kill  Beelzebub and Mephistophilis in us
Let's not rewrite the drama of Dr. Faustus
Let's not barter Salvation for worldly pleasures at any cost
Let's not become the Fallen Angel of John Milton's , " Paradise Lost."

Harinder Cheema.









Poet John Adnan Karajoli.- Ποιήματα για την Ελλάδα

 Poet John Adnan Karajoli.


Η λευκογαλάζια σημαία
Ψηλά ανεμίζει
Την Ελλάδα στους δύσκολους καιρούς
Με περηφάνια στηρίζει 
Τις ψυχές των Ελλήνων πανταχού στο κόσμο
Με αγάπη αγγίζει
Και την καρδιά όλων μας
Με λευκά κόκκινα λουλούδια
Ελπίδες και χαρά γεμίζει

****
 
ΜΑΤΙΑ ΣΤΟ ΑΙΓΑΙΟ

Αγαπώ το Αιγαίο όπως το γλάρο
συγκάτοικος στο ταξίδι μου
ως το κοντινότερο φάρο

******

Ο ουρανός σκεπάζει την Ελλάδα
με ένα μαγικό πέπλο, γλύφοντας από 
άκρη σε άκρη τα σκόρπια βράχια που
τόλμησαν να πλησιάσουν στις ακτές,
φλερτάροντας τα μοναχικά νησιά στο πέρασμα τους

Η θάλασσα πλησιάζει τα νησιά με 
άσπρο γαλάζιο πέπλο ζωγραφίζοντας
γη και ουρανό όλη την Ελλάδα από
θαλασσινό μελάνι σε λευκό γαλάζιο χαρτί.

Ο Θεός δημιούργησε τη θάλασσα
για να αγκαλιάζει τα νησιά και 
τοποθέτησε τα νησιά για να πλάσει 
την Ελλάδα.

John Karajoli 
Συρία 
Ελλάδα 







Carpe "Τα λουλούδια χειροκροτούν..."

 

 Τα μάτια καταπίνουν τη ζωή
  διψούν ακατάπαυστα .
  Στην τρικυμία αυτού του κόσμου
  βασιλεύουν οι ψευδαισθήσεις .
  Ο χρόνος διογκώθηκε
  για να χωρέσει πράγματα.
  Το θρόϊσμα της ανάσας
  κλωθογυρίζει στα άδεια δωμάτια .
  Στο χείλος του γκρεμού
  τα λουλούδια χειροκροτούν
  τις ώρες της ευτυχίας,
 εμμονές που με κρατούν ακίνητο.
  Κάτω απ' τη σμίλη της σιωπής
  η φλέβα του πόνου πάλλεται,
  αναζητά το ρίγος .

   Carpe 







Τετάρτη 29 Οκτωβρίου 2025

The Rock of Resilience By: Walid Alzoukani

 The Rock of Resilience

By: Walid Alzoukani

 

There, where the "frost"

covers the peaks of "Pindus,"

the Greek soldier stood,

resisting despair.

He had nothing but

faith in the homeland, and the love of freedom

That courage is not

an old story,

but the pulse of every heart

that rejects oppression and darkness.

***

Oh, you heroes,

oh, the secret of resilience,

you vowed to the soul that

it will never know surrender.

For true courage is

to remain honorable,

and under the sky of the homeland

to remain great.

***

OXI! Oh, the celebration of dignity

and defiance,

oh, the cry of truth that

rang out in the face of the invaders,

and opened the doors of eternity

for the free people.

Ancient Athens boasts

on this morning of yours,

with the march of its sons,

raising the flags with all pride.

In "Thessaloniki"

the cheering rises,

telling the story of

the "No" that history recorded.

To the one who said it in the face

of the darkness, resisting,

he did not fear tyranny, nor

did he accept disgrace.

The Greek spirit,

is lofty like the "Acropolis."

***

Greece, the cradle of philosophy and wisdom,

the source of light, and the symbol

of freedom.

On your national day,

hearts cheer your name,

a salute of glory to you,

oh, land of courage and struggle.

 




Rand Morsy - "OXI".. The Great Day of Freedom



 "OXI".. The Great Day of Freedom

By: Rand Morsy

 

On the twenty-eighth

of October,

A great day that never fades,

Its memory is a light that illuminates

our paths,

And the strong, resounding **voice of freedom**.

"OXI"

Oh, the melody of courage and defiance,

"Greece" cried out "No"  in the face of the aggressor.

So it earned glory

and eternal persistence

Let all places celebrate the victory.

In the schoolyards,

The voice of the young rings out,

With heroic anthems,

Setting hearts ablaze,

They march in the parade

in their beautiful attire,

A salute to the spirit of resistance,

generation after generation.

***

"OXI"

Is not just a fleeting memory,

But it is the soul of the nation,

And an overwhelming power,

A message that dignity is not compromised,

And that the Greek people do not surrender.






Poem by Immacolata Schiena Italy ...



 Poem 

Immacolata Schiena 
Italy 
...


Il 28 ottobre 1940 l'Italia con Mussolini dichiara guerra alla Grecia, ma le truppe italiane sono fermate dalla resistenza greca.  Il 28 ottobre 1922 è anche  la data della marcia su Roma, finisce l'epoca liberale. Due date importanti, una di sottomissione, l'altra di Resistenza. 


Inno alla libertà
Oppressione più mi leghi
più l’anima mia brama Lei.
Più mi opprimi,
più si espande il mio spirito.
Libertà piange ora,
fra le righe di libri bruciati,
nelle note di
musica non suonata,
nel canto muto della gente.
Libertà piange appesa
al filo di un uomo impiccato.
Libertà non è tua, non è mia.
Libertà piange, ma non muore.
Lei è scritta
in cielo fra le stelle,
in terra nelle onde del mare,
nella danza del vento,
nella pioggia che canta.
Libertà non è tua, non è mia.
Libertà è nell’uomo
che urla al mondo: Ci sono ed esisto.
L’ amor per lei è miele
per le mie ferite.
Di fronte alla scia
di una stella cometa
fugge la paura che non sa
dove nascondersi.
Dietro la grata, Oppressione
non mi tieni chiuso.
Libertà come rosa del deserto
vive anche senza acqua,
le sue radici: pace,
i suoi frutti: baci.
Libertà non è tua, non è mia.
Libertà non è di un politico,
è di un popolo.
È nell’amore donato.
È nel pianto di
un bimbo che nasce.

Ma Libertà è sola,
come stella brilla
nella solitudine della notte,
è spirito di vita,
è pietra preziosa
in vaso di creta,
alito di Dio,

musica sincera
e sa cosa vuole.
Libertà è il miraggio
di chi nel deserto la spera.
Lei è amore e Dio solo sa
quanto fa male quando non c’è.
È con chi è pronto ad amare
con chi è pronto a rischiare.

Libertà non è tua, non è mia.
È nel sangue che sgorga
dal Cristo Redentore,
nella mano che accarezza,
nel pugno che si apre
ad un abbraccio di pace.
Come gazzella salta fra i monti.
Vola come colomba
che ritorna alla sua casa:
il cuore dell’uomo.
Libertà non è tua
e non è mia.
Dalla silloge plurilingue La pace è femmina

Neos Edizione
Di Imma Schiena Poetessa 
Ambassador for Italy 
POETRY Unites people 






"OXI... O Word of Glory" By Hanaan Abdelkader

 "OXI... O Word of Glory"

By: Hanaan Abdelkader

 

On the twenty-eighth of October,

Greece awakens to a memory,

of the great "OXI" Day,

A resounding voice like thunder, that cannot be silenced.

***

In Athens, the battalions march with pride,

and the white and blue flags flutter,

telling the tale of a great refusal,

by a leader who spoke a resolute "No" that would not yield.

"OXI" was the decisive word,

A refusal that did not fear the strength of the invasion,

So the mountains embraced the cries of the heroes,

And Greece became a field of glory and victory.

So celebrate

the glorious "OXI" Day,

From Thessaloniki to Crete, and on every island,

Candles are lit, the fluttering flags are raised,

For the martyrs who irrigated the land with their blood,

So that freedom remains a right for all.

 






 

Poem of Melita Mely Ratković - Serbia


 
LOVE MAGIC

My love is magical,
poison, medicine, strength, joy,
flame of passion, ritual
romantic powerful dance.

I am a self-aware lady. Magnet
for fulfilling hidden
secrets, irresistible, joyous, enchantress,
omnipresent guardian, sacred secrets,

everyone's, nobody's, self-owned. Sprinkled
with stardust, full moonlight,
golden sun rays,

Caressed by the crystal surface of water
Burning passion, without end and beginning
Available, untamable at the same time.

©️ ® Melita Mely Ratković



Biography


Melita Mely Ratković is a poet, translator (Spanish, Portuguese, English, Bengali) and literary ambassador of Serbia in Brazil and Spain. She has participated in world anthologies, including HYPERPOEM for the Guinness Book of Records, and has been recognized among the 50 most important women in Europe. She is the winner of international literary awards and a member of several world academies.






 

Dr.Ratan Bhattacharjee " Festive Days at Danforth "

 Festive Days at Danforth 

                                          Dr.Ratan Bhattacharjee

The maple leaves had begun their slow descent, painting the sidewalks of Toronto in hues of amber and crimson. It was late September, and the city was preparing for the annual Durga Puja celebrations. On Danforth Avenue, the Bengali community buzzed with anticipation—saris were being ironed, dhotis folded, and the scent of nolen gur and ghee wafted from kitchens where payesh simmered gently.Shaibal and Amina arrived at Pearson International Airport on a misty Thursday morning. The air was crisp, tinged with the scent of fall. As they stepped out of the terminal, a gust of wind carried with it a memory—twenty years ago, they had walked hand in hand through the University of Toronto campus, their hearts young and full of poetry. Now, living in Heidelberg, Germany, with careers in literature and translation, they had returned not just as visitors but as honored guests—invited poets for the Danforth Durga Puja.Their invitation had come from the Toronto Bengali Cultural Society, a handwritten letter sealed with nostalgia. “Come home,” it had said. “Come back to where your love began, and let your words bless our puja.”

The Uber ride from the airport to Greektown was quiet, save for the occasional murmur of traffic and the soft hum of the radio playing an old Kishore Kumar melody. Amina leaned her head against the window, watching the city unfold—familiar yet changed. Condos had risen where bookstores once stood, and cafés now bore names in cursive fonts, serving turmeric lattes and vegan mishti doi.Shaibal reached over and gently squeezed her hand. “Still feels like home?”She smiled. “More than ever.”Their Airbnb was a cozy second-floor apartment above a Bangladeshi grocery store on Pape Avenue. The landlady, Mrs. Dutta, greeted them with a warm smile and a plate of shingara. “You two haven’t aged a day,” she said, though her eyes betrayed the years. “I still remember your poetry reading at the university. You made us all cry.”That evening, they walked to the puja pandal at the Eastminster United Church, where the community had gathered for decades. The familiar strains of dhaak drums echoed through the street, mingling with the scent of incense and fried luchis. Inside, the idol of Ma Durga stood radiant—her eyes fierce, her ten arms poised in divine grace.

The next day, the poetry session was held in the community hall, its walls adorned with alpana designs and strings of marigolds. Children ran about in kurta-pajamas and lehengas, their laughter a counterpoint to the solemnity of the rituals.Shaibal read first. His voice, deep and deliberate, carried the weight of years spent translating Tagore into German. He recited a new poem, “Sharad Smriti,” a meditation on autumn, memory, and the quiet ache of return.Amina followed with a piece titled “Danforth Diaries,” a lyrical recollection of their student days—of late-night chai at Donlands, of stolen kisses in the stacks of Robarts Library, of the first snowfall that caught them unprepared but laughing.The audience was spellbound. Elderly uncles nodded in approval; teenagers whispered to each other, perhaps seeing their own futures in the couple before them.After the reading, a young woman approached them. “I’m studying literature at U of T,” she said shyly. “Your poems… they made me feel seen.”Amina touched her arm gently. “Then we’ve done our job.”

On Saturday, they visited the old café where they had first met—The Blue Door, now rebranded as a minimalist espresso bar. The walls were bare, the music electronic, but the corner table by the window remained.They sat there, sipping flat whites, watching the city move past.“Do you remember,” Shaibal said, “how you spilled coffee on my manuscript?”Amina laughed. “And you said, ‘Now it’s a collaboration.’”They walked through the campus afterward, past Convocation Hall and Philosopher’s Walk. The trees were ablaze with color, and students lounged on the grass, oblivious to the ghosts of past lovers who once walked these paths.

On the final day of the puja, the hall was a riot of red and gold. Women in white saris with red borders gathered for sindoor khela, smearing vermilion on each other’s faces in a celebration of feminine power and solidarity.Amina stood before the idol, her eyes moist. She dipped her fingers into the sindoor and turned to Shaibal. “For us,” she whispered, pressing a red mark onto his forehead.He smiled, then did the same. “For all our autumns to come.”As the drums reached a crescendo and the crowd erupted into chants of “Bolo Durga Mai ki jai!”, they stood hand in hand, surrounded by a community that had once raised them, now welcoming them home.That evening, after the sindoor khela, Shaibal and Amina returned to their apartment, their faces still streaked with red, their hearts full. Mrs. Dutta had left a note on their door: “Come upstairs for tea. I made narkel naru.”They climbed the narrow staircase to her flat, where the walls were lined with sepia-toned photographs—Durga Puja from the 1980s, a young bride in a Banarasi sari, a child holding a toy dhaak.Over tea, Mrs. Dutta shared stories of the early days. “We used to gather in basements,” she said. “One idol, borrowed saris, and so much love. Now look—our children speak in three languages and our puja has a website.”

Shaibal smiled. “The diaspora grows, but the roots deepen.”Amina noticed a stack of letters on the table, tied with a red ribbon. “Old love letters?” she teased.Mrs. Dutta chuckled. “No, old invitations. Every year, I write them by hand. It’s my way of keeping the soul in it.”She handed them one. “This was yours. I kept a copy.”Amina unfolded the letter. The ink was slightly smudged, but the words were clear: Come home. Come back to where your love began, and let your words bless our puja.

On Sunday morning, the immersion procession began. The idol was placed on a truck adorned with flowers, and the community followed on foot, singing, dancing, and bidding farewell to Ma Durga.Shaibal and Amina walked with them, their steps slow, deliberate. Children threw petals into the air; elders chanted mantras. The truck made its way to the waterfront, where the idol would be immersed in Lake Ontario.As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting golden light on the water, Amina whispered, “It feels like we’re letting go of something.”Shaibal nodded. “And making space for something new.”They watched as the idol was gently lowered into the lake, the ripples carrying her away. Around them, people wept, laughed, hugged. It was not an ending—it was a promise to return.

Back in Heidelberg, weeks later, Amina sat by the window of their apartment, the Rhine flowing quietly below. She opened her notebook and began to write:Sharad days at Danforth, where maple met marigold, And memory wore a sari of crimson and gold. We came as poets, but left as pilgrims, Carrying verses soaked in sindoor and song.The dhaak still echoes in our bones, The payesh still simmers in our dreams. And somewhere on Pape Avenue, A letter waits, sealed with nostalgia.

She closed the notebook and looked at Shaibal, who was translating Rilke at the dining table.“Next year?” she asked. He smiled. “Always.”

About the writer
APJ Abdul Kalam Awardee writer Dr Ratan Bhattacharjee is a former Affiliate Faculty of Virginia Commonwealth University Richmond & multilingual columnist

 





Short Fiction of Alice Munro: Cultural Memory and Psychological Identity



 Short Fiction of Alice Munro: Cultural Memory and Psychological Identity

                           Ratan Bhattacharjee Ph.D.,D.Litt*

Alice Munro, the Nobel Prize-winning Canadian author, is renowned for her psychologically rich short stories that explore the intricacies of memory, identity, and cultural inheritance. This paper examines how Munro’s fiction engages with cultural memory and psychological identity, particularly through the lens of gender, place, and time. Drawing on selected stories from collections such as The Moons of Jupiter, Runaway, and Dear Life, the paper argues that Munro’s narratives function as intimate excavations of the self, shaped by familial legacies, social expectations, and the quiet violence of memory. Alice Munro’s fiction is often described as “novelistic” in its depth and complexity, despite its brevity. Her stories are rooted in the rural landscapes of southwestern Ontario, yet they transcend geography to explore universal themes of memory, identity, and emotional survival. Munro’s protagonists—often women—navigate the tensions between personal desire and cultural expectation, between past trauma and present consciousness. Munro constructs psychological identity through the prism of cultural memory, revealing the subtle interplay between individual experience and collective inheritance. Cultural memory, as theorized by Jan Assmann, refers to the shared pool of knowledge and experience that shapes a community’s identity over time. In Munro’s work, cultural memory is embedded in domestic rituals, family histories, and the social codes of small-town life. Her stories often begin in the present but spiral into the past, uncovering buried truths and unresolved tensions.

In “Walker Brothers Cowboy” (Dance of the Happy Shades), the narrator recalls a childhood outing with her father, which gradually reveals the economic hardship and emotional repression of Depression-era Ontario. The story’s power lies in its subtle evocation of class memory and familial silence. As Jędrzej Burszta notes, Munro’s narratives are “intimate and psychological portraits… embedded in the dynamic clash between individualism and community” (Burszta).Similarly, “The Moons of Jupiter” explores the strained relationship between a writer and her dying father. The protagonist’s memories of childhood are refracted through adult disillusionment, revealing how cultural scripts of fatherhood and filial duty shape emotional perception. Munro’s use of fragmented chronology mirrors the instability of memory itself, suggesting that identity is always in flux.

Munro’s fiction is deeply concerned with the formation of psychological identity, particularly in women. Her protagonists often struggle to reconcile internal desires with external roles—daughter, wife, mother, lover. This tension is most vividly portrayed in stories like “Runaway,” where Carla, a young woman trapped in an abusive marriage, vacillates between escape and submission. Munro’s psychological realism is grounded in the minutiae of thought—hesitations, rationalizations, and suppressed emotions. In “Runaway,” Carla’s identity is shaped not only by her present circumstances but by the cultural memory of female sacrifice and endurance. Her inability to leave her husband is not merely personal weakness but a reflection of inherited narratives about marriage and duty.In “Royal Beatings” (The Beggar Maid), the narrator recalls her father’s violent discipline, which she later learns was a reenactment of his own childhood trauma. The story illustrates how psychological identity is transmitted across generations, often through pain. Munro’s exploration of intergenerational memory challenges the notion of autonomous selfhood, emphasizing the porous boundaries between past and present. Munro’s stories are often set in rural Ontario, a landscape that functions as both setting and symbol. The small towns, farms, and lakes are repositories of memory, where characters confront the ghosts of their past. Munro’s attention to place is not nostalgic but forensic—she excavates the emotional sediment of geography. In “Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage,” the protagonist Johanna navigates a world shaped by social class and gender norms. Her psychological identity is forged through acts of quiet rebellion, such as traveling alone or marrying unexpectedly. The story’s setting—a remote town and a train journey—mirrors Johanna’s internal transformation, suggesting that movement through space can catalyze shifts in self-perception. Time in Munro’s fiction is non-linear, often looping back to earlier moments or jumping forward unexpectedly. This temporal fluidity reflects the workings of memory, which is rarely chronological. In “Dear Life,” Munro blends autobiographical fragments with fictionalized recollections, blurring the line between lived experience and narrative construction. The result is a meditation on how memory shapes identity, and how storytelling becomes a form of self-making.

Munro’s stories frequently engage with trauma—emotional, physical, and psychological. Yet she resists sensationalism, opting instead for quiet revelations and elliptical disclosures. Trauma in Munro’s fiction is often encoded in silence, in what is not said or remembered. In “Dimension,” a woman visits the psychiatric hospital where her husband is incarcerated for murdering their children. The story unfolds through her internal monologue, revealing how trauma distorts memory and reshapes identity. Munro’s portrayal of grief is restrained yet devastating, emphasizing the ethical complexity of remembering. Munro also explores the trauma of social exclusion. In “Red Dress—1946,” a young girl experiences humiliation at a school dance, which becomes a formative memory of shame and alienation. The story captures how cultural norms—beauty, popularity, femininity—imprint themselves on the psyche, shaping identity through emotional injury.

Alice Munro’s fiction offers a profound exploration of cultural memory and psychological identity. Her stories illuminate how individuals are shaped by familial legacies, social expectations, and the quiet violence of memory. Through her nuanced portrayals of women, her forensic attention to place and time, and her ethical engagement with trauma, Munro constructs a literary world where identity is always in negotiation. Munro’s work challenges readers to reconsider the boundaries between self and society, between memory and narrative. In doing so, she affirms the power of storytelling as a means of understanding who we are, where we come from, and how we carry the past within us.Munro’s fiction is deeply rooted in place, particularly the rural landscapes of Ontario. These settings are not merely backdrops but active participants in memory transmission. The towns, farms, and lakes are repositories of familial and cultural memory, where characters confront the ghosts of their past.

In “Home,” the narrator returns to her childhood house, now inhabited by her stepmother. The physical space triggers memories of her father, her mother, and her own emotional development. Munro uses the house as a metaphor for the layered nature of memory—each room holds a different story, a different version of the self. In “Fiction,” a woman discovers that a young writer has fictionalized her life. The story raises questions about ownership of memory and the ethics of storytelling. Munro implies that memory is communal, shaped by both teller and listener. The transmission of memory across generations is not passive but active, involving interpretation, negotiation, and sometimes conflict.Place also serves as a bridge between generations. In “Working for a Living,” Munro recalls her father’s fur-trapping business and the economic struggles of her family. These memories are tied to the land, to the rhythms of rural life. Munro suggests that identity is shaped not only by people but by the environments they inhabit.Munro’s characters often use memory to resist cultural norms and to reclaim agency. In “Friend of My Youth,” the narrator revisits her mother’s stories about a woman named Flora, who defied expectations by refusing to marry. The narrator’s interpretation of Flora’s life changes over time, reflecting her own evolving identity.Munro portrays memory as a site of contestation, where different versions of the past compete for legitimacy. The narrator’s attempt to understand Flora becomes a way of understanding her mother, and ultimately herself. Munro suggests that reclaiming memory is an act of empowerment, allowing individuals to rewrite inherited narratives.

Dr. Ratan Bhattacharjee Former Affiliate Faculty, Virginia Commonwealth University, USA is an International Tagore Awardee poet and multilingual Columnist . Email profratanbhattacharjee@gmail.com

Works Cited

Munro, Alice. Too Much Happiness. McClelland & Stewart, 2009.

Munro, Alice. Open Secrets. McClelland & Stewart, 1994.

Munro, Alice. Dear Life. McClelland & Stewart, 2012.

Munro, Alice. Runaway. McClelland & Stewart, 2004.

Munro, Alice. Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage. McClelland & Stewart, 2001.

Burszta, Jędrzej. “Images of Past and Present: Memory and Identity in Alice Munro’s Short-Story Cycles.” ResearchGate, https://www.researchgate.net/publication/314633920..

Munro, Alice. Dance of the Happy Shades. McClelland & Stewart, 1968.

Munro, Alice. The Moons of Jupiter. McClelland & Stewart, 1982.

Munro, Alice. Runaway. McClelland & Stewart, 2004.

Munro, Alice. Dear Life. McClelland & Stewart, 2012.

Assmann, Jan. “Collective Memory and Cultural Identity.” New German Critique, vol. 65, 1995, pp. 125–133.

Clifford, James. “Diasporas.” Cultural Anthropology, vol. 9, no. 3, 1994, pp. 302–338.

 




Τρίτη 28 Οκτωβρίου 2025

ΗΛΙΑΣ ΓΙΑΝΝΑΚΟΠΟΥΛΟΣ "Στη μνήμη των “αφανών” Ηρώων"

 

  *Γράφει ο Ηλίας Γιαννακόπουλος, Blog "ΙΔΕΟπολις"

    ☆ Ελλάδα,  Χρόνια Πολλά. Ένα άρθρο αφιέρωμα στην 28η Οκτωβρίου 1940.

           *Ένας οφειλόμενος έπαινος στους “Αφανείς Ήρωες”.

               1."Μία δε κλίνη κενή φέρεται εστρωμένη των αφανών, οί αν μη ευρεθώσιν ες αναίρεσιν" (Και ένα φέρετρο άδειο μεταφέρεται σκεπασμένο για τους άγνωστους νεκρούς, που δεν πρόκειται να βρεθούν και να περισυλλεγούν, Θουκυδίδης).

                               «Ερωτήσεις ενός εργάτη που διαβάζει»

            2.“Ποιος έχτισε τη Θήβα την εφτάπυλη; / Στα βιβλία δε βρίσκεις παρά των βασιλιάδων τα ονόματα./Οι βασιλιάδες κουβάλησαν τ΄ αγκωνάρια; / Η μεγάλη Ρώμη είναι γεμάτη αψίδες θριάμβου. Ποιος τις / έστησε; / Ο νεαρός Αλέξανδρος υπόταξε τις Ινδίες. / Μονάχος του; / Ο Καίσαρας νίκησε τους Γαλάτες./ Δεν είχε ούτ΄ ένα μάγειρα μαζί του; Κάθε σελίδα και μια νίκη./  Ποιος μαγείρεψε τα νικητήρια συμπόσια; Κάθε δέκα χρόνια κι ένας μεγάλος άντρας./ Ποιος πλήρωσε τα έξοδα;/ Πόσες και πόσες ιστορίες!” (Μπρεχτ, 1935)

                   Ποια σχέση μπορεί να έχει μία φράση από τον “Επιτάφιο” του Περικλή, ένα ποίημα του Μπρεχτ με τις αφίσες των νεκρών-ηρώων του έπους του 1940 και με τους ανάλογους για την περίπτωση πανηγυρικούς;

                   Ποιοι συνειρμοί ενεργοποιούνται διαβάζοντας την περικοπή του Θουκυδίδη, το ποίημα του Μπρεχτ «Ερωτήσεις ενός εργάτη που διαβάζει» και ακούγοντας ταυτόχρονα  τα σχετικά με την περίσταση εμβατήρια ή το προσκλητήριο νεκρών του έπους του 40;

                   Ποια απάντηση μπορείς να δώσεις στο διαχρονικό ερώτημα “Ποιος γράφει την Ιστορία; Το άτομο ή το Πλήθος. Οι επώνυμοι και οι επιφανείς ή ο ανώνυμος όχλος;” διαβάζοντας το ποίημα του Μπρεχτ αλλά και ακούγοντας τα ονόματα των επιφανών ή των πρώτων νεκρών του πολέμου στα Αλβανικά βουνά;

               

            Ερωτήσεις που επίμονα ζητούν πειστικές απαντήσεις αλλά και  απορίες που ζητούν μία λογική και όχι λογικοφανή ερμηνεία που να υπηρετεί την ιστορική αλήθεια και όχι αλλότριες σκοπιμότητες-έστω καν κάποτε είναι καλών προθέσεων.

              Συνήθως οι αφίσες των εθνικών επετειακών εκδηλώσεων είναι κοσμημένες από τις μορφές των επώνυμων νεκρών του πολέμου, όπως και οι πανηγυρικοί λόγοι. Για αυτούς τα αγάλματα, γι αυτούς τα Ζήτω, γι αυτούς οι έπαινοι.

              Ε! Τότε είναι που στοχάζεσαι και προβληματίζεσαι αν οι νίκες στον πόλεμο και η πορεία της ιστορίας ενός λαού είναι προϊόν της δράσης των “Επιφανών και Επωνύμων” ή και των “Αφανών και των Ανώνυμων” 

              Η Μνήμη και η Ιστορία είναι δυστυχώς επιλεκτικές και άδικες προς τους δεύτερους. Οι αφανείς και οι ανώνυμοι πολεμιστές το μόνο που εισπράττουν από την κοινωνία είναι οι αφιερωματικές μαρμάρινες στήλες του τύπου «Των Αφανών Ηρώων» ή το περισσότερο ένα μνημείο με το ηχηρό «Τω Αγνώστω Στρατιώτη».

             Φυλλομετρώντας τα ογκώδη βιβλία της πολεμικής ιστορίας ενός λαού, διαβάζοντας τους πανηγυρικούς στις εθνικές επετειακές εκδηλώσεις και βλέποντας τις σχετικές αφίσες των σχολικών εορτών  δεν βρίσκεις τίποτα άλλο παρά μία “παρέλαση” ονομάτων εμπνευσμένων Ηγετών-Βασιλιάδων, λαμπρών και γενναίων Στρατηγών και γενικότερα ανθρώπων Επώνυμων και Επιφανών που με τη σκέψη και τη δράση τους καθόρισαν τις τύχες των λαών τους είτε στο πεδίο της μάχης είτε στο πεδίο άσκησης ειρηνικών έργων. 

                                  

                  Μαθαίνουμε για τη ζωή αυτών των ανθρώπων, για τα ανδραγαθήματά τους, τον Ηρωισμό τους, τα Πάθη τους αλλά και για τις θυσίες τους στο όνομα των δικαίων του λαού τους και των Εθνικών Ιδεωδών. Οι πιο χρυσές σελίδες της Ιστορίας γράφονται γι αυτούς μέχρι που θα βρεθεί ο αθυρόστομος Θερσίτης για να φωνάξει δημόσια την κάλπικη δύναμη της Εξουσίας και για τα δίκαια του άσημου αγωνιστή, του στρατιώτη, του εργάτη…

                    Τότε είναι που σκέπτεσαι και διερωτάσαι πού είναι οι εκατοντάδες-χιλιάδες μαχητές, αγωνιστές, στρατιώτες (μικροί ήρωες) και εργάτες που με το μόχθο τους και τον καθημερινό τους αγώνα λαμπρύνουν το όνομα των Ηγετών τους (κάθε Ηγέτη) αλλά και όταν χρειαστεί θυσιάζονται στα πεδία των μαχών του πολέμου που οι Ηγέτες τους αποφάσισαν. Πού είναι αυτοί που παράγουν-δημιουργούν  με τον μόχθο και τη θυσία τους τον πλούτο (υλικό κα άυλο) του λαού τους;

                Ούτε μία λέξη γι αυτούς, τους διαμορφωτές και σκαπανείς της πραγματικής ιστορίας παρά μόνο τα μνημεία τα αφιερωμένα στον “Άγνωστο Στρατιώτη” που γεμίζουν με δάφνινα στεφάνια στις εθνικές επετείους και που ακούγονται οι πιο θερμοί Έπαινοι και τα πιο ηχηρά Ζήτω για τη θυσία τους “Υπέρ Βωμών και Εστιών”.

     Μετά, όμως, δεν υπάρχει μετά. Η Λήθη επιβάλλει το νόμο της.  Και περιμένουν την επόμενη εθνική επέτειο για να τους ξαναθυμηθούμε…

                 Όχι ως πρόσωπα, αλλά ως αριθμούς που δόξασαν το όνομα της Πατρίδας και στεφάνωσαν με τη ζωή τους τα ιδανικά του Έθνους και της Εθνικής Ελευθερίας. Αυτοί οι “σιωπηλοί” και μικροί “αφανείς ήρωες”, οι διαμορφωτές του ιστορικού γίγνεσθαι  βρίσκονται στα περιθώρια των βιβλίων της ιστορίας και διεκδικούν κάθε φορά με υπομονή και (τη “σιωπή” τους πάλι) την αναγνώριση των δικών τους θυσιών.

                  Όλοι αυτοί οι “αφανείς και ανώνυμοι μικροί ήρωες” διεκδικούν πεισματικά αιώνες τώρα λίγα ψίχουλα από τη δόξα των “επώνυμων, των επιφανών και των μεγάλων Ηρώων”.

           “Για τους μεγάλους, για τους ελεύθερους, / Αρμόζουν τα λόγια τα μεγάλα, τα ελεύθερα, / τα γενναία, τα δυνατά…” («Μπολιβάρ», Νίκος Εγγονόπουλος).

                   Ο αγώνας και η θυσία των αφανών και των ανώνυμων, ωστόσο, αναδεικνύει και μία άλλη ιστορική αλήθεια: Πώς το πρώτο «κινούν» της ιστορίας είναι ο άνθρωπος, όχι υποχρεωτικά ο επώνυμος αλλά ο ανώνυμος. Μπορεί στην ιστορική διαδρομή ενός έθνους οι επώνυμοι να προδιαγράφουν τα εθνικά ιδεώδη, αλλά οι ανώνυμοι είναι αυτοί που τα πραγματώνουν.

                 Γιατί και τα σύγχρονα λαμπρά παλάτια, τις σύγχρονες πανύψηλες πυραμίδες και τα πελώρια κτίσματα δεν τα έκτισαν οι Επώνυμοι και οι Επιφανείς αλλά και οι άλλοι, οι Άγνωστοι, οι Ανώνυμοι και οι Αφανείς…

              Για όλα αυτά, λοιπόν, και για λόγους ιστορικής αλήθειας και δικαιοσύνης  Πολιτεία και Κοινωνία οφείλουν στις εθνικές επετείους ή σε μία ξεχωριστή ημέρα να μνημονεύουν το ρόλο και τη θυσία των “αφανών και των ανώνυμων”.  Γιατί συνιστά εθνική απρέπεια και ιστορική αδικία να αποδίδονται όλες οι τιμές στους επιφανείς και επώνυμους και να αγνοείται η θυσία των χιλιάδων αφανών και ανωνύμων.

              Βέβαια όλα πρέπει να ξεκινήσουν από τη γραφή των ιστορικών που υπερπροβάλλουν τη δράση και τη θυσία των επωνύμων ηρώων και αποσιωπούν ή καταχωρούν στα περιθώρια των σελίδων τη δράση και την προσφορά των ανωνύμων. Βέβαια θα υποστηρίξει κάποιος πως κι αυτοί επηρεάζονται και παρασύρονται από την βουλιμία των αναγνωστών που συγκινούνται και ενθουσιάζονται μόνον από τη δόξα και τη θυσία των Επώνυμων και των Επιφανών Ηρώων.

                   Ακόμη και οι αρχαίοι τραγικοί ποιητές αντλούσαν τα θέματά τους από τους μεγάλους κύκλους των βασιλιάδων, γιατί τα πάθη τους και τα επιτεύγματά τους  αποτελούσαν για τους απλούς ανθρώπους-θεατές την ευκαιρία να βιώσουν κι αυτοί κάτι από τα πάθη τους ή την δόξα τους.

              Όλες οι παραπάνω σκέψεις και θέσεις πήγασαν από την επετειακή εκδήλωση του χωριού μου προς τιμήν του πρώτου νεκρού του ΕλληνοΙταλικού Πολέμου, του Βασίλη Τσιαβαλιάρη (Τσιαβαλιάρεια 2024). Σε αυτήν τιμάται με τη δέουσα τιμή η θυσία του πρώτου νεκρού. Στο προσκλητήριο των νεκρών γίνεται και μία απλή αναφορά και των άλλων έξι συγχωριανών του που κι αυτοί σκοτώθηκαν στο μέτωπο.   

               

             Γι αυτό, λοιπόν, και για λόγους ιστορικής δικαιοσύνης η Κοινότητα ΠΙΑΛΕΙΑΣ και ο Δήμος Πύλης πρέπει να προσθέσουν-τοποθετήσουν δίπλα στο άγαλμα του Βασίλη Τσιαβαλιάρη μία στήλη  με τα ονόματα και των άλλων πεσόντων στο μέτωπο συγχωριανών του.

            Οδηγός μας τα λόγια του Μακρυγιάννη:

     “Τούτην την Πατρίδα την έχουμε όλοι μαζί, και σοφοί κι αμαθείς, και πλούσιοι και φτωχοί, και πολιτικοί και στρατιωτικοί, και οι πλέον μικρότεροι άνθρωποι…Όταν όμως αγωνίζονται πολλοί και φκιάνουν, τότε να λέμε «ΕΜΕΙΣ». Είμαστε στο “Εμείς” κι όχι στο “Εγώ”.

 

                                         * ΠΡΟΣΚΛΗΤΗΡΙΟ

                     Πεσόντων Πιαλειωτών στο Έπος του 1940-41

               1. Στρατιώτης Τσιαβαλιάρης Βασίλειος του Ιωάννη του 51°” Σ.Π. έπεσε πρώτος εκ των Ελλήνων μαχητών στις 28 Οκτωβρίου του 1940, στο 21° Φυλάκιο των Ελληνοαλβανικών συνόρων

               2. Στρατιώτης Κούτσικος Βασίλειος του Γρηγορίου του 5°” ΣΠ. έπεσε στις 14 Νοεμβρίου 1940 στους Πάδες Κόνιτσας.

              3. Στρατιώτης Ζάχος Χρήστος του 5°” ΣΠ. έπεσε στις 15 Νοεμβρίου 1940 στην Ιτέα της Κόνιτσας.

              4. Στρατιώτης Ζτρίβας Χρήστος του Δημητρίου του 5°” ΣΠ. έπεσε την Δεκεμβρίου 1940 στο ύψωμα Ογκρένι.

               5. Στρατιώτης Τσιάμης Ιωάννης του Βασιλείου του 51°” Σ.Π. έπεσε στις 29 Ιανουαρίου 1941 ση Μονή Βελλά.

              6. Στρατιώτης Παπαδημητρίου Αχιλλεύς του Γεωργίου του 5°” Σ.Π. έπεσε στις 12 Μαρτίου 1941 στο ύψωμα 731.

             7. Δεκανέας Υφαντής Δημήτριος του Ηλία του 5°” Σ.Π. έπεσε στις 27 Ιουλίου 1941.

              

 https://iliasgiannakopoulos.blogspot.com/