Home Blog

The Complex Challenge of Governing AI Relationships Across Borders

0

The technological advancement has created the intricate web of relationships between businesses, governments, and individuals.

  • The path forward requires not just frameworks and regulations, but active engagement from all of us in the technology community

A lot of clashes and disputes are appearing and have come to legal action

Ahmed Bahgat

Throughout my 25 years in IT and dispute resolution, I’ve witnessed how artificial intelligence has transformed the fabric of our society. What fascinates me most is not just the technological advancement, but the intricate web of relationships it has created between businesses, governments, and individuals. As someone who regularly mediates technology disputes, I’ve seen firsthand how AI has introduced both groundbreaking opportunities and deeply concerning challenges.

The Governance Challenge

Just last month, I arbitrated a case where a manufacturing company’s AI-powered quality control system made decisions that resulted in significant losses for their client. The challenge? Neither party’s contract had adequately addressed AI decision-making accountability. This isn’t an isolated incident – I’m increasingly seeing similar cases where traditional legal frameworks simply can’t keep up with AI’s complexity.

a4c6a00a0552c3be50d2df9e93346e2169763b0c4edd5bcc Digitalization WorldRead – Navigating the Challenges of AI Governance: A Comprehensive Overview

Recently and due to a huge demand from the business to utilize AI capability, we found in the market a lot of ICT services providers saying they are AI enablers and sign contracts to deliver values to the business; unfortunately, it doesn’t deliver any value due to short of skills or misunderstanding to the business cycle and what it need to better results. Here a lot of clashes and disputes are appearing and have come to legal action.

Read: AI and the Future of Human Relationships

What keeps me up at night is the dark side of AI capabilities. In a recent dispute, we dealt with a sophisticated deepfake video that nearly destroyed a business partnership built over decades. These aren’t hypothetical scenarios anymore – they’re real challenges landing on my desk with increasing frequency.

1520125115956 LinkedInGlobal Best Practices Emerging

I’ve been particularly impressed with how different regions are tackling these challenges. The EU’s AI Act, while not perfect, has taken a bold step forward. Having worked with European clients implementing these regulations, I can tell you it’s not just about compliance – it’s about fundamentally rethinking how we approach AI risk.

Read: The Effects of Artificial Intelligence on Human Relationship

Singapore’s approach resonates with me on a practical level. Their Model AI Governance Framework mirrors what I’ve long advocated for – clear risk assessment protocols and transparent data handling. I’ve seen small businesses in Singapore adapt these principles successfully, proving that good governance doesn’t have to be overwhelming.

From my experience working with U.S. companies, the Algorithmic Accountability Act has been a game-changer in how organizations approach AI development. Though, I must say, implementing it has been challenging for many of my clients, particularly when balancing innovation with compliance.

The UAE’s Leadership Role

Having been based in the UAE for several years, I’ve had a front-row seat to its AI transformation. A collaborative project between local enterprises and Microsoft at Abu Dhabi’s AI center. What struck me was the practical focus on solving real-world problems while maintaining ethical standards.

The DIFC’s updated Data Protection Regulations have transformed how we handle AI-related disputes. Just last quarter, I worked on a case where these regulations provided crucial guidance in resolving a complex AI data processing dispute between a global company and its local partner.

The Need for International Collaboration

In my arbitration practice, I’m increasingly dealing with cases that cross multiple jurisdictions. Recently, I handled a dispute involving an AI system deployed in Dubai, developed in Singapore, with data processed in Europe. This complexity is exactly why we need stronger international cooperation.

article-images-1000x750-11-1Toward a Global Governance Framework

Based on my experience mediating AI-related disputes, I believe we need to prioritize:

Transparent Decision-Making: I recently worked with a financial institution that revolutionized their AI transparency after a costly dispute. Their approach of maintaining detailed decision logs and clear audit trails has become a model I often recommend to others.

Read – Artificial intelligence: Rooting out Bias and Stereotypes

Shared Accountability: Through my arbitration cases, I’ve learned that clear liability frameworks are essential. One successful approach I’ve seen involves staged responsibility matrices, where each party’s obligations are clearly defined based on their role in the AI system’s lifecycle.

A Collaborative Path Forward

Looking ahead, I remain both optimistic and cautious. The challenges I see in my practice daily remind me that we’re still in the early stages of understanding how to govern AI effectively. Yet, the innovation and willingness to collaborate that I witness across borders gives me hope.

In conclusion, while AI’s potential excites me as a technologist, my experience as an arbitrator has taught me to remain vigilant about its risks. The path forward requires not just frameworks and regulations, but active engagement from all of us in the technology community.

Published under the International Cooperation Protocol with Middle East Business | Life Magazine Abu Dhabi

__________________

Ahmed Bahgat-1Ahmed Bahgat is an IT Expert and Arbitrator based in UAE

Novel: A Woman between Two Men – Part-27

0

The novel ‘A Woman between Two Men’, with an Albanian-American Theme, is authored by Carrie Hooper and Skifter Këllici

Chapter IX

Mary didn’t know how she got through those hours at the hospital. She kept asking herself the same question: Had she really seen Kreshnik from afar? When she had made her way through the crowd, she had only caught a partial glimpse of his hair, nose, and beard, nothing more. Whenever she got the chance, she went to the break room or to another part of the hospital with a television and watched the news. But she didn’t find out anything else.

A Woman Between Two Men - Novel- Sindh CourierShe also called Wilma from work. She affected cheerfulness and told her she had seen Ralph’s interview on TV. She anxiously waited for Wilma to tell her that Kreshnik Germeni was among those arrested, not for drunken and disorderly conduct, but for drug trafficking. However, Wilma said she didn’t know anything and in general, her husband did not go into detail about his work since it was confidential.

Mary’s shift finally ended. Since Charlie was still away on business, she would go home alone.

She approached her car and was about to get in when suddenly, she heard a voice that made her blood freeze:

“Mary!”

Mary cried out and turned, stunned, in the direction from which the unfamiliar voice had come. In the light of the parking lot, she saw a tastefully dressed young man who looked at her with longing. She had encountered young, troublesome men before. She was about to explode in anger when, to her astonishment, she discovered it was none other than Kreshnik.

“What are you doing here?” she almost shouted.

She wanted to embrace him right then and there, put her trembling hands on his head, stroke his freshly cut hair, and touch his thick eyebrows, smooth face, and lips. He looked attractive. He had taken Mary’s advice and had worn a shirt and jacket, but she was not prepared for this sudden change. Her mind in a whirl, she looked around as if she feared someone might see her. Then she managed to say, “Get in the car right now!”

Kreshnik, who may have been expecting anything but this invitation, obeyed like a child who, instead of being struck on the arms and legs by the parent’s or teacher’s rod, finds himself in a car next to Mary.

Mary drove quickly as if she wanted to avoid danger. Frightened, she asked, “Have the police been after you?”

“Me?” said Kreshnik, surprised. “No, but tonight, I went to a cafe, and two officers saw me from the counter. They eventually left.”

“Were you drunk?”

“Absolutely not. Since the day I promised you I wouldn’t drink anymore, I haven’t had a single drop of whisky. But I had a drink at the cafe. I felt bad.”

“How come?”

Kreshnik shrugged his shoulders.

“Because of the poem I published in that magazine. It was you who called me that night and hung up, wasn’t it?”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Mary said. This time, she did not look at him as if to imply that she and Kreshnik would eventually resolve their issues.

Mary drove a little farther, then stopped the car.

“There’s a cafe right here. Let’s go in for awhile,” she said as she and Kreshnik got out of the car.

The cafe was practically empty. Classical music played from a radio. Mary and Kreshnik sat at a table. Mary ordered two coffees while Kreshnik, numb, wondered what Mary would tell him. When he had seen her a few minutes earlier, he had noticed a faint twinkle in her eyes. He did not know if that was an expression of her glee at being able to punish him or if it meant something else. Mary hesitated, not knowing how to answer Kreshnik’s question from a few minutes earlier.

At last, she said, “Yes, I called you. I wanted to know who you dedicated those poems to, in particular, the one entitled `If I Were”, but then I changed my mind and hung up. I forgot you would find out I had called you after you had seen the name of the hospital where I work on the caller ID.”

“I’m sure you wanted to scold me for this grave error which continues to bother me.”

“No, the truth is, I liked your poems. But later, I got angry. You had some nerve dedicating a poem to me even though no one except Wilma knows about us.”

After a brief pause, as if to explain herself, she added, “I mean, the fact your love for me inspired you to write a poem about me after I had ordered you to write about another woman whom you would love, that’s what bothered me.”

A heavy weight fell from Kreshnik’s shoulders.

“That’s why I came, to ask your forgiveness. I should not have used such poor judgment,” he mumbled.

“Then why did you do it?” Mary persisted.

Nik felt drained.

“I no longer have the right to interfere in your life, Mary,” he said, meekly. “But no one can stop me from loving you from afar. No one, not even you. And I will continue to love you this way.”

“Platonic love? I said that once out of spite.”

“Let it be so.”

“And what will you gain?” Mary asked with pity. “You will suffer even more. Times have changed. Physical love expresses spiritual love.”

Mary felt she was saying these words against her wishes for if he had the courage to bend down and kiss her, she did not know if she would find the strength to resist him.

Mary looked at Kreshnik and did not care if other people were watching her. They would know she had fallen head over heels in love with this young man whose eyes changed color like the refractions of the setting sun on a mountainside or on the sea at twilight.

Anyone present at that moment would know that Mary burned with a longing she could not and did not try to conceal. When she came out of this intoxicating state, she said to Kreshnik, “That’s why we need to separate. We’re headed in different directions.”

Then, to change the subject, she said, “As I told you before, these clothes make you more attractive.”

She bit her bottom lip after she said those words, then continued, “I’m glad you’re giving up alcohol. Now you have to leave that dirty business. This morning, Ralph Kallagan told me that one of his officers saw you in a bar. Just so you know, he swore that if you get drunk and cause a disturbance or if he finds out you are involved with drugs, he will cuff you. That’s why I went looking for you. When I watched the news this morning, as I have every morning since we last saw each other, I didn’t know whether or not anything bad had happened to you. I even wanted to come to your house, and I probably would have if you hadn’t come to the hospital.”

“Thank you, Mary,” said Kreshnik, his voice filled with longing. “I am trying to escape this awful business.” He told her about his conversation with Max Cooper and explained how his disgusting boss had wanted to send him to Sacramento, that he had told him he was sick when, in fact, he had wanted to meet Mary to ask her forgiveness for having written the poem.

Mary listened with a broken heart and soul.

“I have forgiven you,” she said. “After all, your poems were moving.”

Kreshnik felt a dizzying impulse. Even he didn’t know why he reached for Mary’s hand and squeezed it. He noticed she did not pull away. He told her how he had become a victim of the trap that Max Cooper had set for James. Kreshnik’s tragic story weighed heavily on Mary.

A piano piece was playing on the radio, the notes of which seemed to descend lightly from an immeasurable space in order to cajole Kreshnik and Mary.

“That’s Chopin,” said Nik. He felt uneasy about holding Mary’s hand. “`The Farewell Waltz.` Have you ever heard it?”

“Yes, but I didn’t know it was by Chopin,” said Mary.

“He dedicated it to his beloved, Maria Vozinski. They were forced to part.”

“Why?” Mary wondered.

“Chopin was in Leipzig where Count Vozinski’s family lived. The Count was Maria’s father. Maria agreed to marry Chopin but begged him not to go to Poland. However, his homeland was calling him and needed that great composer. So they broke up. Chopin composed that waltz in memory of their ill-fated love.”

Kreshnik closed his eyes, as if he were experiencing that painful separation, and continued, “I read in a book that Chopin played that waltz before he and Maria separated. It reminded her of white flowers, raining down from heaven, which she tried to catch, but they slipped through her fingers. They hit her face and shoulders, and she felt as if she were sinking into them. The notes of that waltz were the flowers of parting.”

Kreshnik’s voice trembled, and his eyes shone like stars in the night sky.

“How hard it is for those in love to part and never see each other again,” he said. “I remember a poem about separation by a great Albanian author and poet:

`Even if my tired memory

Only stops at the main stations

Like the subways after midnight,

I will not forget you.

I will remember

The infinite, quiet evening of your eyes,

The muffled sob that landed on my shoulder

Like invisible snow.

The time came for us to part.

I moved far away from you,

But sometimes at night,

My miles-long fingers will meet those of someone else

As they stroke your hair.” (Continues) 

Click here for Part-1Part-2Part-3Part-4Part-5,  Part-6Part-7Part-8Part-9Part-10Part-11Part-12Part-13Part-14Part-15Part-16Part-17Part-18Part-19Part-20Part-21Part-22Part-23Part-24Part-25, Part-26

___________________

About the Authors 

Carrie Hooper- Writer- Sindh CourierCarrie Hooper was born and raised in Elmira, New York. She has been blind since birth. She received a B.A. in vocal performance from Mansfield University, Mansfield, Pennsylvania.  She went on to receive an M.A. in German and an M.A. in vocal performance from the State University of New York at Buffalo. After completing her studies, she spent a year at the Royal University College of Music in Stockholm, Sweden as a Fulbright scholar. Carrie currently lives in Elmira, New York. She taught German, Italian, and Romanian at Elmira College. She has a passion for foreign languages and in addition to the languages mentioned above, she is also proficient in Swedish, Spanish, and Albanian. Music also plays an important role in Carrie’s life.  She teaches voice and piano lessons, gives vocal concerts, plays the piano and organ at a church, and sings in a community chorus. Carrie not only loves music and languages, but also enjoys poetry. She has published three books: “Piktura në fjalë” (“Word Paintings”), a bilingual collection of poetry (Albanian-English), “My Life in My Words”, and “Away from Home.” She has also translated texts from Albanian and Romanian to English.

Skifter Kellici -Albanian-American writerSkifter Këllici was born in Tirana, Albania and received a diploma in history and literature from the University of Tirana. He worked as a journalist, scholar, and sportscaster on radio and television. He is the author of several novels and nonfiction books, including the children’s books, “Memories of the Old Neighborhood” and “In the Footsteps” as well as the historical novels, “Assassination in Paris”, “The Murderer with the White Hands”, and “September Disaster.” He wrote the screenplay for “In the Footsteps” which won a special prize at the International Children’s Film Festival in Giffoni, Italy in 1979. He has lived in Boston, Massachusetts since 1999.

[The book ‘Disastrous September is being reproduced in episodes with the consent of the author]

Hur women of Sindh fought guerrilla war against the British

0

Unfortunately, the historians have neglected the Hur Women Fighters while writing the history 

Farooq Sargani

Despite immense contributions in almost every field, including the wars of freedom, the women have been neglected in the annals of history around the world. Sindh is not an exception, as the women, having played distinguished and exemplary roles, are rarely mentioned in history books. However, it’s an undeniable fact that in the past, Sindhi women have always raised voice against the injustice, and even carried arms to fight the tyrannical rule of the British Empire.

During the British era, the social and economic condition of women became very bad, particularly in the Hur populated region of Makhi Forest in present day Sanghar district, because the people of Makhi Forest and the Achhro Thar (White Desert) never accepted the encroachment of the British Empire over Sindh. The British colonial policies compelled the Hurs, the followers of Pir Pagara, to carry weapons.

Read: Hur Guerrilla War Strategy against British Colonial Rule in Sindh

In this article I would briefly focus the resistance of women and guerrilla warfare tactics of Hur women.

Hur women used to dig trenches to hide and secure their children and other family members; such things were mentioned by one of the early writers of Hur Movement – Malhar Faqeer Khaskhali, in his book “Brave Sisters.”

Malhar Fakeer-Hur-Book-Sindh Courier
Book cover: Brave Sisters. The book was about the women who took part in Hur movement

According to Malhar Faqeer, he met Ismail Faqeer, who told him that he provided groceries and other necessary things to Hur women in the Makhi Jungle, and further stated that Hur women used to live in trenches and had strong sentiments of “Jihad” and wore men’s dresses and carried weapons to ambush enemies and then hide in trenches. There were so many trenches and tunnels in the Makhi Jungle, where a large number of Hur women lived.

Hur women were brave and used to spy on the activities of British forces and informing fellow Hur fighters in the Makhi Dhandh (Lake) area and didn’t care about their own lives. The guerrilla warfare of Hur women proved that the women can fight like men.

66288c8a203b1Like a Spartan woman, who bravely told that they were born soldiers for fighting, the Hur women also claimed that they had given birth to the brave soldiers who fought against injustice, so why not the women can kill the enemies?

With such spirit, the Hur women used to fight shoulder to shoulder with their men or form the groups to ambush the British army.

According to other researchers, “The women had an emotional attachment to their motherland and soil. However, when the colonial forces increased pressure upon everyone who belonged to the Hur community, women and children were both affected a lot and that is why women carried weapons just for defense.

Read: Malhar Faqeer Khaskhaili – One of the early writers of Hur Movement

Malhar Faqeer, however mentioned that “The Hur women were involved in the war for the sake of freedom.”

After the martyrdom of their spiritual leader Pir Sibghatullah Shah Rashdi, who was hanged in central jail Hyderabad, there was no leader who can lead and organize the Hur community, and there was no alternative to form the government replacing the British rulers.

We also find some spiritual and religious aspects behind the fight of Hur women, because those women did not know how to fight and had no any nationalist approach. They just safeguarded themselves and their families and community.

I regret that those women who provided medical services, and developed strong communication against the British forces; their contribution is neglected in history by some extremist writers.

Read: The Hurs of Sanghar

_______________

The author is a student of History at Karachi University

 

Behind the bushes – A Short Story

1

‘Behind the bushes’ is a story of a young girl, murdered at wedding night by a man whose proposal was rejected by her parents

Maria Khushk

A dog barked early in the morning, at the time of prayer call, and headed to the area behind the house. This space was filled with bushes, trees, stones, garbage, and discarded items, rarely ventured into by the people, except the animals and birds. Although the dog had a home and an owner, but the pet visited this place every morning. That day, the dog barked loudly and repeatedly, yet no one responded. Disheartened, the pet returned home and began barking beside its owner. The owner ignored it, placing a pillow over his ears. The dog climbed onto the bed and nudged him persistently, trying to wake him up. Irritated, the owner scolded the dog. Still, it ran back to the same spot, barking even louder.

By 7 AM, the owner had woken up. The dog barked incessantly, pacing restlessly. Sighing, the owner asked, “What’s wrong with you today? You haven’t even relieved yourself!” Grabbing a towel, he went to take a shower, but the dog didn’t stop barking. During the shower, the owner felt an unusual calmness in the house. After getting ready, he stepped outside, took milk and bread from the fridge, and sat down to eat. Just then, the dog returned, barking once more, urging him to follow. Curious, the owner stepped outside, and the dog led him toward the back of the house. As they walked further, the owner glanced back a few times, an inexplicable fear gripping him. Uneasy, he asked the dog, “Where are we heading?” The dog barked persistently, moving ahead.

images (3)When they reached the spot, the owner was stunned. The area was eerily deserted. Suddenly, he looked up at the balconies of the nearby houses and saw a shadow of a person. The person quickly hid, feeling as if he had been seen. The owner turned back and saw the body of a woman lying on the ground. She was dressed in a red lehnga, looking like a bride, her neck had been brutally slit. There was no jewelry on her, making him wonder—had she run away from her wedding, or had someone kidnapped her? Or was she killed by robbers? One thing the owner was certain of was the strong stench of blood at the scene. For someone soft-hearted, it might have caused vomiting or even fainting.

He thought of reporting the body to the police. When he did, the officer looked at him in confusion. “You said the girl wasn’t wearing any jewelry?” the officer asked, rather than asking, “What time did you see her?”

The man confirmed, “Yes, she wasn’t wearing any jewelry.”

The officer replied, “Well, we haven’t received any missing person reports. Once we do, we’ll inform you. Leave your number outside.” The cop didn’t rush to the place of crime despite having received information of the dead body of a woman.

Returning home, the man found the dog had drunk the milk but left the bread untouched. This added to his worries. It was the end of the month; his salary had run out, and the rent was due soon. He sat down in an old chair, his eyes landing on the wall clock. It was 11:10 AM, his shifts time. Anxiety gripped him. “If I’m late again today, I’ll lose my job,” he thought. The dog came over and hugged him. “We are stuck in a problem that you saw this morning. Pray that this issue gets resolved soon,” he said, patting the dog.

At the shop, he received a call from the police asking him to come and identify the body. Confused, he thought, “Why should I identify it? What the relation do I have to the dead body?” He shared everything with his shop-owner, who immediately said, “Don’t come back to this shop tomorrow. This is a murder case, and I don’t want to get involved.”

At the police station, he learned that the family of the deceased claimed the girl had been kidnapped the night before.

Shocked, the man asked, “Where was the family all night?”

The police asked the same question. The family replied, “We were looking for her all night. How did this man find her?”

The officer turned to the dog’s owner, who said, “It’s true. My dog found the body, and I reported it to the police. Now I’ve lost my job and peace of mind.”

The officer replied, “Alright, let’s inspect the area where the dead body was found.” At the crime scene, the police asked the girl’s family, “When did you realize she was missing?”

“When we went to pick her up from the parlor,” the family replied.

“And who dropped her off?” the officer asked.

“I dropped her off and told her I’d come back in an hour,” the girl’s mother responded.

“The parlor had CCTV footage, so we took the footage from them. When the CCTV footage was reviewed, it revealed the girl had never entered the parlor. Instead, a man dressed in tattered clothing, like a beggar, his face partially covered, grabbed her and dragged her away—after the mother had already left.” Deceased’s father told.

The family showed the police a video on their mobile, and after watching it, the police asked questions, “Did you check anywhere else or ask around?”

“Yes, sir, we showed the girl’s picture to everyone around and asked if anyone knew anything, but no one could tell anything. Also, there were no CCTV cameras anywhere except at the parlor.”

Back at the police station, the officer asked the family, “Is there anything else you think we should know?”

“No, nothing else,” they said.

But the man who found the body said, “When I arrived at the scene, I saw a shadow of a person who quickly hid when he realized he was seen. Maybe this information will help.”

The officer nodded, “That’s possible.”

The family prepared to leave, but the wife told her husband, “You should tell them everything. They should know what’s happening.”

“Our daughter is no more. There’s no use sharing anything. Just keep quiet and let’s leave,” the husband replied, hiding his pain and fear.

753644-bloodviolencekilledmurder-14090164781698564869-0This reaction struck both – the man who found the body, and the police as strange. The officer instructed his team, “There’s something wrong, look into it and investigate properly. There’s more to this than we see,” The police officer, scratching his head, told his team.

The police began their investigation with people from the girl’s neighborhood. They said, “She was very respectful and obedient, always following her parents’ instructions.” Then they interviewed the girl’s best friend, someone with whom she had shared her childhood, school, college, and secrets. When questioned, the friend appeared nervous, on edge. Tears welled up in her eyes, and the police sensed she was hiding something. She began crying.

“She’s crying because the deceased was her childhood friend. She’s heartbroken,” her father explained.

“Poor girl,” a police officer remarked.

But the friend kept glancing at the policeman, as if she wanted to say something.

The policeman reported this, and a female officer was sent to conduct a one-on-one interview. The female officer reassured the girl, “You can tell me anything. I’m here to help, so don’t be afraid.”

The girl finally broke down and shared everything. “A marriage proposal had come for the deceased. She liked the proposal, but her family rejected it, thinking that the boy had no parents or family—he was completely alone. They found another boy for her and fixed her marriage. The rejected boy caused a big scene at their house, declaring that he wouldn’t let her marry anyone else. And when she wasn’t found by the evening of the wedding, her parents searched everywhere. They even went to the house of the rejected boy, but no one opened the door. A watchman informed them that no one had been living in that house for a month. Left with no choice, they returned home disappointed.”

This story was very surprising for the police. The marriage proposal had come from the same area where the dead body was found, and the person who discovered the body also lived in that area. But suspicion couldn’t be placed on that man for this reason alone. If he were the same person, the girl’s parents would have said something. However, the girl’s mother seemed nervous, which indicated that there was something she wasn’t revealing.

The inspector asked the girl’s family, “Was the person who proposed to her the same man who found the body?”

“No,” they replied.

Because the family’s statements didn’t seem trustworthy—it was clear they knew something but were deliberately hiding it.

So that’s the reason the female officer returned to ask the deceased’s friend, “Did that boy have a dog?”

“He never brought a dog here, so I don’t know,” the girl replied.

One policeman remarked, “He didn’t take a dog anywhere.”

Now, police officer and his team went to collect some more information from the crime scene. They also revisited the person who had reported the crime because something was definitely missing that they hadn’t noticed before. When they reached the dog-owner’s house, they saw his bag was packed, as if he was preparing to leave. The dog barked, and the officer confronted him, saying, “You’re clever. As soon as we figured out who killed the girl, you decided to run away.” The police officer patted the dog on the head and said.

“The fact is that I have been living here for the past three years, but the owner of the house, after learning that I reported a murder case, has ordered me to leave the house without any notice.” The dog’s owner said tearfully.

The cop said, “There’s someone who knows everything.”

The man, now in tears, fell at the police officer’s feet, pleading, “I didn’t do anything! My only mistake was that my dog found the body!”

After listening to him, the lady officer, with a thoughtful expression, asked, “Didn’t you say you saw someone on the balcony? Who was that?”

The officer, noticing his colleague’s remark, thought about it and, irritated by the dog owner’s words, said, “You please, shut up for two minutes!”

The police officer asked the man, “The day you saw the dead body, you mentioned noticing a person’s shadow. Where did you see it?”

The man took the police team to that place. When they reached there, and knocked the door, at first, the door didn’t open. When it finally did, a strange smell began to spread. Inside stood a man, drenched in sweat, bloodshot eyes, wearing tattered clothes, with a thick, unkempt beard and long, tangled hair. The police officer, along with his team, entered the house, and the dog’s owner followed as well. There was no need to search the house. One of the rooms was drenched in blood, and jewelry was neatly arranged on a table as if it were ready for someone to wear.

The strange man came forward in anger to kill the dog’s owner for reporting to the police, but the police stopped him and caught him.

The man was taken to the police station, where the family of the dead body was asked to verify if the jewelry and the boy were the same. When the family arrived, the girl’s mother sat down crying, and the girl’s father confirmed that the jewelry and the boy were the same.

Moral: The lesson from this story is that truth is powerful, but it is often a double-edged sword. It can bring justice and clarity, but it also comes with the risk of personal sacrifice. Society’s response to truth is often harsh, and individuals may be punished for speaking out, while those who manipulate the truth may thrive without consequence. On the other hand, a liar, to hide one lie, tells a hundred more lies. For power and money, one can even make the truth seem like a lie, and can ruin someone’s life with false accusations. The story underscores the difficult reality of living with integrity in a world that often punishes honesty.

Read: The Bruised Soul – The Story of Domestic Violence

___________________

Maria Khushk-Sindh CourierMaria Khushk is a freelance writer based in Hyderabad Sindh. She is author of a book titled ‘‘The Cage of Innocence’. She also contributes articles and stories to Sindh Courier.

Read: Shattered Dreams – A Short Story

The Light Hidden in the Soul of Words – Poetry from Turkey

0

Open your heart’s home to others

The world’s possessions are not worth more.

Mustafa Özke, renowned poet, journalist and writer from Turkey, shares his poetry

Mustafa Özke-Turkish Poet- Sindh CourierMustafa Özke was born on January 13, 1969, in Adana, Turkey, to a family with roots in Thessaloniki. The rich history and cultural heritage imbued his art with a profound soulfulness. Özke is a unique figure in Turkish literature, masterfully weaving personal and societal values into his works. His literary journey ran parallel to his career in journalism, which began in 1989 at Yeni Adana newspaper. The keen observational skills and sensitivity to human stories he cultivated as a journalist lent his literary works an unparalleled depth. Whether in his documentaries or essays, his works carry the imprint of lived experiences. Özke’s creations draw inspiration from the boundless horizons of Çukurova, the dreams of its people, and the resilience forged in their struggles. Yet his pen does not remain confined to the local; it serves as a bridge to the universal. In works such as A Candlelight in Pitch Darkness, the quest for light in the darkness is a metaphor not only for individual longing but also for humanity’s shared pursuit of hope. A multifaceted artist, Mustafa Özke has left a rich legacy in Turkish literature through poetry, stories, documentary scripts, and essays. In his poetry, personal emotions and societal realities merge seamlessly. Poems like The Slingshot and The Lighthouse narrate the individual’s inner journey while reflecting the society’s collective mirror. His works have also found a voice in music. Poems like ‘Is There Anything Like Istanbul?’ transformed into songs, creating a harmonious blend of words and melodies that captivate audiences. Deeply connected to the people and history of his homeland, Özke transcends geographical boundaries with his pen. His stories navigate the fine line between the individual’s inner world and the dynamics of society. In projects like the documentary Children of the Republic, Özke undertakes a historical responsibility, while in stories like The Hearth and Sand Trucks, he delves into the depths of the human soul. In doing so, he creates a bridge between the past and the present, illuminating the path to the future. Mustafa Özke’s literary prowess has been affirmed by numerous accolades. His story Lacework earned him the Hacı Bektaş-ı Veli Award, while his poem The Slingshot received the Kaygusuz Abdal Special Award, underscoring the depth and universality of his works. Mustafa Özke’s accolades include the 2018 Puduhepa Honor Award in Adana, the Hacı Bektaş-ı Veli Award for his story İğne Oyası in Nevşehir, and the Kaygusuz Abdal Special Award for his poem Sapan in Antalya. He also received The M. Cemal Şenadam Special Award in Osmaniye for his poem Nisan Yağmurları (April Rains); The Sennur Sezer Achievement Award in Istanbul for his story Karpuz Çekirdeğinden Entariler (Dresses from Watermelon Seeds); First prize in Adana for his article Kendini Sevmekle Başla Hayata (Begin Life by Loving Yourself); Second prize in Ankara for his interview Zifiri Karanlıkta Bir Mum Işığı and The Vahittin Bozgeyik Second Prize in Gaziantep for his poem Canevi.

Adana_Seyhan_River
Seyhan River, Adana, Turkey

To the First Seagull

Throw a piece of simit

To the first seagull that comes!

Watch how the others follow,

Defying the wind with resolve…

***

Heart’s Home

With its face resting on the water,

The cypress trees’ cool shade

Was loved by sparrows.

The coots,

Escaping the yellow heat,

Sought refuge in reeds,

One by one.

I learned,

A stone rolling in the flood

Never gathers moss.

And a human too,

They say,

Loves to grow moss—

If only they find a heart to cling to.

Be a sparrow,

Be a coot,

Be moss.

Open your heart’s home to others;

The world’s possessions are not worth more.

***

a690afa8263a828553c287dde535ea92
Photo courtesy: Pinterest

Two Cups

On my lips,

The ink’s blaze,

On my knees, the seagulls!

With you,

Even two cups taste different—

Maiden’s Tower in one,

A sip of Üsküdar in the other!

***

Secret

You were like the ships

Sailing through the night…

No one ever knew

You passed through my heart!

Read: Leave me Timeless – Poetry from Turkey

__________________

Introduced and Coordinated by Jakhongir Nomozov, Member of the International Union of World Talents and Editorial Board Member of YAZARLAR Magazine, Representative of Uzbekistan.

Sindhi Mandir London to organize Europe’s Biggest Cheti Chand Mela 2025

0

The grand Cheti Chand festival will be held on Cheti Chand Day, Sunday 30th March 2025

London

Sindhi Mandir, serving as the Sindhi Community House in London, has started preparations for organizing the Europe’s Biggest Cheti Chand Mela 2025, a vibrant Festival of Sindhi Cuisine and Culture.

The grand Cheti Chand festival will be held on Cheti Chand Day, Sunday 30th March 2025.

“A day to celebrate, connect, and indulge in all things Sindhi—delicious food, rich culture, and festive vibes await Sindhi community,” Sindhi Community House said in an announcement.

Sindhi Mandir-London-Sindh Courier
Sindhi Mandir-London- Photo courtesy: Sindhi Mandir

At the Mandir, Sindhi Cooking School also organized events on December 8, for celebrating Christmas.

The final Sindhi Cooking Class of the year were held on 8th December, focusing the art of making Seero Malpua —a sweet delight perfect for the season.

Sindhi Mandir also announced the schedule of regular monthly programs for the January 2025 which include Asa Di Var on Sundays at 7.30 to 8.30am; Mata Ki Chowki on First Saturday of the month at 7pm; Happy Tuesday Family on First Tuesday of the month at 12noon; Sukhmani Paath on Thursdays at 12.00 to 2.00pm; Satnarain Katha on Satnarain day at 12.00 to 2.00pm; Online Yoga weekly on Mondays & Fridays at 10.45 to 11.30am; Swami Teooram Maharaj and Swami Shanti Prakash Satsang on last Saturday of the month at 5.00 to 6.00pm.

All events will be followed by Langar Prasad.

Read: Sindhi Mandir London organizes Children’s Diwali Party

__________________

Read – Shradh Ceremony at Sindhi Mandir London: Remembering the departed loved ones

Novel: A Woman between Two Men – Part-26

0

The novel ‘A Woman between Two Men’, with an Albanian-American Theme, is authored by Carrie Hooper and Skifter Këllici

She turned down another street. Suddenly, she spied a crowd of people in front of a market. Several police officers had just arrested two young men. One of them had a beard, a mustache, and long hair. What if it was Kreshnik?

A Woman Between Two Men - Novel- Sindh CourierTerrified, Mary stopped on the sidewalk and charged forward to get a closer look. But that was impossible because the hordes of people around her blocked her view.

“Nik! Nik!” she shouted, unaware that some of the people in that crowd might know Kreshnik and Charlie. She was also oblivious to the fact that Ralph or Scott might be there. But the din of people and cars drowned out her cries. Mary’s sad eyes followed Kreshnik from behind. She tried again to move forward, but her way was blocked. Still, she could make out the police officers who lowered his head and put him in a car which sped off, followed by television cameras.

“Do you know them?” Mary asked a bystander.

“They’re not worth knowing,” he replied. “They’re druggies. I hope they go to prison for a long time.”

Shaken, Mary turned and went toward her car.

“Excuse me, Ma’am, but you owe 30 dollars for illegally parking on the sidewalk.”

Mary turned, and a policeman handed her the ticket. She immediately took out a bill from her purse and handed it to him. From there, she went straight to the hospital and left her car in the parking lot. It was quarter to three. She headed for the break room and watched the TV news. She grew anxious. Near the end of the broadcast, a correspondent announced that the San Diego Narcotics Division had just completed a successful operation. A days-long investigation had ended with four arrests. Mary opened her eyes wide in an attempt to at least make out Kreshnik’s face, but she could only see part of his profile. Was it or was it not he? How could she know that Kreshnik no longer had a beard, a mustache, or long hair? Meanwhile, the correspondent was interviewing Ralph Kallagan.

“We will continue our operation without interruption,” said Ralph, whom Mary had seen less than two hours ago. “San Diego has a very complicated network of drug producers and traffickers. Our work has just begun. We will continue our investigations and raids.”

“Our viewers would be interested to know the names of the people you arrested,” said the correspondent.

Mary froze.

“Right now, that information is confidential since this is an ongoing investigation,” Ralph explained. “We’ll release the names later.”

Mary did not feel like watching any more of Ralph’s interview. Overwhelmed, she went to her work station.

When Kreshnik left Dolores’ office, he breathed deeply as if he had just come out of a stuffy room. He had purposely not brought his car. When he made drug runs, Max usually gave him a safer car than his own. Kreshnik wandered aimlessly. He went from sidewalk to sidewalk past shops, restaurants, parks, and skyscrapers, unaware that a stocky man in a brown jacket followed him.

To his surprise, it was after five. He decided to go to a cafe he sometimes frequented. He sat down and ordered a cup of coffee. He had followed Mary’s advice and had not touched alcohol for several days. But he did not like the coffee. It made him nervous. So after thinking long and hard, he ordered whisky. The alcohol went down easily and made him oblivious to everything. It did not take him long to empty his glass.

“Forgive me, Mary, that I did not keep my word,” he said to himself.

Once again he failed to notice the stocky man sitting behind him. He ordered another whisky which he drank more slowly. As he sat there, not knowing what he would do next, two policemen entered the cafe. Kreshnik was momentarily frozen with fear. Had they come for him? Maybe Mary had reported him to Ralph Kallagan and had accused him of writing an offensive poem about her. That afternoon in front of the restaurant, Mary had claimed that Kreshnik had followed her and had wanted to make love to her. Why wouldn’t she do the same now? After all, she had the proof, that cursed poem. Furthermore, she might have told Ralph that Kreshnik was a drug trafficker, and Ralph might have sent these policemen after him.

One of the officers looked at Kreshnik with suspicion. He interrogated the cafe’s owner who sometimes nodded and sometimes shook his head in response to his questions. Then, the policemen left the cafe. The one officer, however, still kept his eyes on Kreshnik as if to say, “Drink but don’t get drunk because I mean business.”

Kreshnik did not drink any more whisky. In his oblivion, he heard someone call him by name. He turned and saw Petrit walking over to him. Petrit sat down next to Kreshnik and gently put his hand on his shoulder.

“I saw you from my car when you came in here, and you looked upset,” he said with concern in his eyes. “So I parked my car and came to see you. What’s going on?”

“Nothing much,” said Nik. He felt uptight.

“I loved your poems in “The Literary Magazine.” You must be happy to be a published poet. Congratulations. Some of my Albanian and American friends liked them, too.”

“Thank you, Petrit.”

“I’m sure you’ve written others.”

Nik nodded.

“I’m sure they’re beautiful. Therefore, don’t wait. Publish them. Who knows? Maybe you’ll win a scholarship to study literature.”

“Mary said the same thing that day in the garden,” said Nik with a twinge of sadness.

He regretted having uttered those words, but it was too late.

“You see, I wasn’t mistaken,” said Petrit. He squinted and added, “By the way, don’t you have a girlfriend? The way you two looked at each other, especially when you were dancing so gracefully, you looked like two lovers. The young people around you didn’t cheer, `Long live the happy couple, long live the lovers!` for nothing. I’m sure the two of you heard their cries. Or were you in another world?”

“It seemed that way to you, Petrit, but now she’s engaged to an all-American scientist,” murmured Kreshnik and wrinkled his forehead.

Petrit changed the subject in an attempt to make his friend feel better.

“I almost forgot to tell you my biggest news: I leave for Albania the day after tomorrow. I haven’t seen my parents and younger sister in three years. Also I will perform some of my songs on television.”

“That’s great!” said Kreshnik, attempting a smile.

“Maybe next year, we’ll go to Albania together. It would be your second visit since you and your father escaped. Maybe by then, you will have published your first book of poetry in America and maybe in Albania. Maybe you will write the lyrics for my songs, and maybe we’ll be invited to perform on Albanian television. What do you think?”

“You exaggerate, Petrit. I, publish a book of poetry, published even in Albania? I, the lyricist for your songs?”

Nik could hardly suppress a groan.

“Oh, Lord, what happened to this good man?” said Petrit to himself. “When I get home from Albania, we will meet, and I will find out why you suffer so much. Perhaps it’s a matter of love. Does it involve Mary or is it something else?”

Petrit looked at Kreshnik with pity, put his hand on his shoulder again, and said gently, “Forgive me, Brother. Forgive me.”

Then, he rose and started to leave. Nik remained seated with his head down. Suddenly, he rose quickly and extended his hand to Petrit, who had already reached the door, to stop him and get his attention, but then he froze and fell back into his chair.

What fantastic dreams Petrit had shared with Kreshnik right when he had reached a crossroads. The man in the brown jacket continued to keep his eyes on him.

A short time later, Kreshnik’s cell phone rang. It was James asking when he would be home. Kreshnik told him he would be late.

He did not know how long he stayed in that cafe. He did not pay attention to who came and went. But when he saw that darkness had fallen and that it was after nine in the evening, he jumped up, left the cafe, and walked deliriously along the crowded, noisy sidewalk, bathed in the lights from billboards. Why had that officer talked to the cafe’s owner and looked at him so intently? What had he said to the owner, and how had the owner responded? Maybe they had talked about Kreshnik. Maybe the policeman had discovered that he, too, was a drug trafficker. Maybe the police were watching him right now. There was no reason for Kreshnik to think otherwise.

He heard two young people talking beside him.

“I saw several policemen,” said the first person, surprised. “What’s going on?”

“Didn’t you see the midday news! They arrested some drug dealers,” the second person explained.

“Do the police suspect there are drug dealers in the cafe?”

“Who knows what those men in blue think?”

So those policemen might have come to the cafe to see what Kreshnik was doing and could slap the cuffs on him at any time! After he mulled over these terrifying thoughts, he headed for the nearest police station. It would be better to turn himself in than for the police to catch him and arrest him. This would relieve him of his overwhelming anxiety which he and Mary had talked about. The stocky man followed him.

He almost dragged his feet when he entered the police station. The officer on duty was on the phone. Kreshnik waited with bated breath until the officer had finished his conversation. He thought his heart would stop. He looked oblivious to his surroundings.

“How may I help you?” asked the officer, looking closely at the finicky but shy young man. He was middle-aged with a thin mustache.

The most horrifying moment of Kreshnik’s life had come, the moment he had thought about again and again. He had to say to this officer, who looked at him curiously, the words which would end his life as a free man and would label him a lawbreaker. Indeed, the law showed no mercy for crimes resulting in death. In that dreadful instant, Kreshnik had to say the words which would put him behind bars.

“Officer, my name is Kreshnik Germeni. I have come to turn myself in because I … I … how should I say … have been a drug trafficker for many years. I have managed to escape a few police ambushes.”

“Sir, you look rather pale. Are you sick? Would you like me to call an ambulance to take you to the hospital?” said the officer who had now risen from his chair.

Just then, Kreshnik realized he had not said the words he had stored in the recesses of his spinning mind. He broke out in a cold sweat, his vision blurred, and he felt dizzy. The officer went over to help him, but he quickly came to. Images flashed through his mind. He pictured himself in a dark prison cell, lonely, far from the hustle and bustle of life and from Mary who had decided to meet him for the last time.

“Thank you, Officer,” said Kreshnik, “but that’s not necessary.” He tried to look as calm as possible. “The truth is, I felt very weak and came here to ask for your help, but now I feel better. Anyway, I appreciate your willingness to help me.”

“At least sit down for a few minutes. I’ll bring you a glass of water,” said the officer, gently, and pointed to the chairs in the lobby.

“No, thank you. I feel much better now.”

After he wished the officer a pleasant evening, Kreshnik left.

Once again, he was part of the crowds around him and part of the buzz of activity. Life in all its splendor flourished in the streets, promenades, and parks. What a contrast to the somber prison where he, just a few minutes before, had wanted to be. He practically ran as if he feared the officer, who had shown him much kindness, would remember why he had come to see him.

Kreshnik hurried toward a taxi parked along the sidewalk. A passenger got out, and he got in. After a few minutes, he arrived at a park across from the hospital. He sat on a bench and waited. It was twenty to eleven. Kreshnik would try to see Mary in twenty minutes.

He shivered, but not because of the evening breeze. Unbeknownst to him, the stocky man in the brown jacket continued to watch him from a distance. (Continues) 

Click here for Part-1Part-2Part-3Part-4Part-5,  Part-6Part-7Part-8Part-9Part-10Part-11Part-12Part-13Part-14Part-15Part-16Part-17Part-18Part-19Part-20Part-21Part-22Part-23Part-24, Part-25

________________

About the Authors 

Carrie Hooper- Writer- Sindh CourierCarrie Hooper was born and raised in Elmira, New York. She has been blind since birth. She received a B.A. in vocal performance from Mansfield University, Mansfield, Pennsylvania.  She went on to receive an M.A. in German and an M.A. in vocal performance from the State University of New York at Buffalo. After completing her studies, she spent a year at the Royal University College of Music in Stockholm, Sweden as a Fulbright scholar. Carrie currently lives in Elmira, New York. She taught German, Italian, and Romanian at Elmira College. She has a passion for foreign languages and in addition to the languages mentioned above, she is also proficient in Swedish, Spanish, and Albanian. Music also plays an important role in Carrie’s life.  She teaches voice and piano lessons, gives vocal concerts, plays the piano and organ at a church, and sings in a community chorus. Carrie not only loves music and languages, but also enjoys poetry. She has published three books: “Piktura në fjalë” (“Word Paintings”), a bilingual collection of poetry (Albanian-English), “My Life in My Words”, and “Away from Home.” She has also translated texts from Albanian and Romanian to English.

Skifter Kellici -Albanian-American writerSkifter Këllici was born in Tirana, Albania and received a diploma in history and literature from the University of Tirana. He worked as a journalist, scholar, and sportscaster on radio and television. He is the author of several novels and nonfiction books, including the children’s books, “Memories of the Old Neighborhood” and “In the Footsteps” as well as the historical novels, “Assassination in Paris”, “The Murderer with the White Hands”, and “September Disaster.” He wrote the screenplay for “In the Footsteps” which won a special prize at the International Children’s Film Festival in Giffoni, Italy in 1979. He has lived in Boston, Massachusetts since 1999.

[The book ‘Disastrous September is being reproduced in episodes with the consent of the author]

A Familial Tether: The History of Burning

0

The foundational strength of Janika Oza’s intergenerational work, The History of Burning,’ is characters who grow and pass the torch to the next member of the family

By Rajesh C. Oza

The story of Pirbhai

A History of Burning opens with a boy—Pirbhai—contemplating departure from a Gujarati village at the end of the 19th century when the British still ruled India and much of the world. “The heat was a dry beast, scorching the fields yellow as gora hair. He eased himself onto a step by the water’s edge, letting his chappals graze the foam. Jamnagar offered him nothing.”

Gora. Chappals. Un-italicized brown language reclaimed from the gora Queen’s English. Brown feet shod in chappals walk across a century of their history.

Janika Oza (no known relation to this reviewer) closes her riveting novel at a body of water in Ontario, Canada. Her characters—Pirbhai’s descendants—have come a long way from home to find a home in the family. “Their feet, toughened by sand and stone, arrive where they began, at an ancient knowing.”

An ancient knowing. There’s wisdom here. There is no end to history. Waves of migration cannot be stopped. Telling stories of movement from old to new, forward and back, will not be stopped. “The waves break and mend, break and mend.”

Change is unyielding

From 1898 to 1992, the novel’s calendar serves as a reminder that time moves forward, and change is unyielding. Structurally, Oza wisely shifts her point of view from year to year, chapter to chapter, character to character. Old stories told. New stories nestled inside of the ever-alive old ones. Through subtle, and not so subtle, shifts in diction and syntax, the novel changes the voices of its characters. This is the foundational strength of Oza’s intergenerational work: we see characters grow and pass along the torch to the next member of the family. To be sure, in this history of burnings, fingers are singed in the handoffs, loved ones are lost. But in the end, this is an optimistic work of hope and possibility.

At the intersection of races

Although all of the chapters use Indian names for titles (Pirbhai, Sonal, Vinod, Rajni, Latika, Arun, Mayuri, Kyia, Hari, and Meetu), the book sits at the intersection of different races—brown, black, and white.

As Pirbhai lays down a railway in colonial Africa, one of his fellow Gujarati migrant laborers jokes, “If we ever get to ride that train, it’ll be the British in first class, Indian in second, African in third.” Still a teenager, Pirbhai laughs along. Probably to get along. It’s what children do. It’s what immigrants do. Survive. “The only way to survive was to last the longest, to prove himself the most loyal of them all.” This leads to the novel’s first burning. At the order of a British colonel, Pirbhai sets fire to a cluster of lived-in East African huts: “Clear the path ahead.” Make way for the train. Capitalism. Colonialism. White man’s progress. Pirbhai was only a “coolie” doing the colonel’s bidding. Making his way in the world.

Like the train rumbling across Africa, the calendar moves across this novel’s century. Pirbhai makes his way to Sonal’s Daddy and Mummy’s shop in Kenya’s hinterland. Time barely passes before Mummy recognizes that though a laborer, Pirbhai has potential, could be an asset to her family. Daddy tells Sonal that “she would marry the coolie and move with him to Kampala to work in Daddy’s cousin’s pharmacy and send money back.”

This was—and in many ways still is—the Gujarati social network. From India to Africa to Canada, “kind helping kind helping kind.” This was—and in many ways still is—how love works in an arranged marriage. Sonal “wanted to ask [Pirbhai] if he had thought about marriage before, if he was imagining it all these times she caught his gaze lingering on her.”

Read – Brotherless Night: Family, Love & Civil War In Sri Lanka

______________

cropped-Raj-Oza-120x120Dr. Oza is a management consultant and facilitates the interpersonal dynamics of MBAs at Stanford University. His novel, Double Play, will be published in 2024 by Chicago’s Third World Press.

Courtesy: India Currents (Posted on November 10, 2024)

Quantum Genesis – Poetry from Nicaragua

0

In a drop of life that flows,

A genesis of existence is written,

And ethereal consciousness rests

On the nascent, quantum moon.

Leo Acosta (Pen name Julio García), a writer and poet from Nicaragua, a Central American nation, shares his poems.

Leo Acosta- Nicaragua-Sindh CourierLeo Acosta (pen name Julio García) is a writer and poet born in southern Nicaragua, a Central American nation. He has published the following titles in his home country: Escritos de Júpiter (2014), Nicaragua, My Voice and My Thought for You (2016), and Nicaragua: Culture, Heritage, and Tradition (2018). In El Salvador, under the editorial seal Navegando Sueños, he published La abuela Nico cuenta (2017). In 2024, he released Carmen la Negra and Mujer Divina y Etérea through Kindle-Amazon. He participated in the Virtual Festival of World Poets (2022 and 2023 editions), organized by the Writers Capital Foundation, by invitation of Mallorcan writer and painter Joan Josep Barceló y Bauzá. Additionally, he has contributed to various international anthologies, including Poetic Anthology: Arte Senza Frontiere and Prodigy Magazine, directed by writer Zlatan Demirovic.

In the field of international festivals, his accomplishments include: Lucius Annaeus Seneca International Academic Award for Contemporary Literature (7th Edition, 2023), where he received an honorable mention in the section for foreign residents with the poem Mind and Development. Cygnus Aureus International Literary Art Award (2024), where he was awarded the second prize ex aequo in Peschiera del Garda on June 15, 2024. D’Elba Award – International Prize for Poetry, Literature, and Art (2024), with a participation mention in the seventh edition.

He is a member of the World Academy of Culture and Literature (AMCL), based in Brazil, directed by poets Djalma Pinheiro and Janete Sabag Bottan. Additionally, Leo Acosta is the director, host, and producer of the program Cultural News, broadcast online by Radio Satélitevisión y Americavisión, a Chilean station under the direction of Mrs. América Santiago.

WHY-YOU-SHOULD-TRAVEL-TO-NICARAGUA.jpegQuantum Genesis

In a drop of life that flows,

A genesis of existence is written,

And ethereal consciousness rests

On the nascent, quantum moon.

 

From the crystal of that oceanic drop

That hangs in the fragile pendulum

And flows without hearing a sound,

Infinity, unity, and time

Descend to the lower state.

 

Multidimensional matter

Emerges in the positive pole

And joins its essence to the negative

To give origin in the void,

A river of pure torrent.

***

images (3)Microcosmic Inertia

Microorganisms in motion,

Generating inertia in every cell,

Connected to a cosmos

Of energetic emotions.

 

At times, it flows imperceptibly

Through a crude mind,

Premature in knowledge

Of an infinite evolution,

A creation in reaction.

***

headerGarden of the Soul

I preserved in the lagoons of my mind

The diversity of thoughts.

I cultivated in the micro hectares

Of the heart, clean feelings,

So that after winter

Divergent species could bloom:

Multiform orchids,

In a multiplicity of colors,

Thus provoking

The ecstasy of our vision.

***

little-corn-island-nicaraguaRoots of Balance

Be calm!

For the night is short;

The days arrive with their own language,

Offering a rhythm of total harmony.

 

Every vital torrent provokes

In this universe

Profound and elevated sensations,

Contributing to its unique balance.

 

Every source quenches thirst

With its own wisdom,

Scattering the root of life,

Embedding itself in every bark.

________________  

Angela KostaCoordinated by Angela Kosta, Executive Director of MIRIADE Magazine, Academic, journalist, writer, poet, essayist, literary critic, editor, translator, promoter

Read: Mirror of Our Roots – About the poetry Jeanette Tiburcio Márquez

I am a body – Mystic Poetry from India

0

When the angel of death came

I offered him my body

He was surprised

Where is your soul?

 Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, a renowned poet and writer from Chandigarh, India, shares his mystic poetry

Jernail Singh Anand- Sindh CourierDr. Jernail Singh Anand, based in Chandigarh, is an Indian poet and scholar credited with 170 plus books of English literature, philosophy and spirituality. He won great Serbian Award Charter of Morava and his name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia. He was honored with Seneca Award LAUDIS CHARTA by Academy of Arts & Philosophical Sciences, Bari, Italy 2024. He is Founder President of the International Academy of Ethics and conferred Doctor of Philosophy (Honoris Causa) by University of Engineering & Management, (UEM) Jaipur. Email anandjs55@yahoo.com 

Biblio-link: https://sites.google.com/view/bibliography-dr-jernal-singh/home   

dgj0dig-cddd094a-9a75-4ec2-beda-aea847747c06 DeviantArt
Image courtesy: DeviantArt

I AM A BODY

I came to know

I was a clinical entity,

An amalgam of blood and bones

And a few pounds of flesh

 

Driven by a mind

Situated far away

No will of my own

Only the stakes were mine

 

I was under orders

To go on working

Earn my food

Eat it and have a barbed sleep

 

When the angel of death came

I offered him my body

He was surprised

Where is your soul?

 

I searched my luggage

And brought out a small piece

Of quenched flames.

Angels looked at me in surprise.

 

I was carrying its carcass only

It died years back

I am a house

In which no one lives.

***

90972a71c6e3efdb0dcbdb805238f607
Image courtesy: Pin Page

RIDE

During the day, I am in my senses

The night arrives

With oblivionogen tablets

And I suddenly lose consciousness.

 

My senses are then hijacked

Better say abducted

Sometimes taken to Thebes

And sometimes to Troy

 

I visit forbidden palaces

In which I was perhaps married

Or murdered who knows

How blissful this lack of Knowledge is!

 

When I get up,

I have squarely forgotten

Where I had been,

And I am back to my square one.

 

On one side is the day of conscious activity

On the other, the night

When we give ourselves over to sleep

To be taken for a dreamy ride.

________________ 

Read: The Spectacle – Mystic Poetry from India