Six Degrees of Separation

... Musings from Tor Khan ...

Who is Tor_Khan and why do I have this name? Do I exist as an Internet ID only or do I have another self - a real one, in which I am known quite differently? Another name; another life; another family and another community that I belong to?

Clearly yes, though I'm not sure that I need to dwell on this much beyond those initial questions. There are reasons. See, this blog has provided a genuine place in which I have been able to explore my thoughts, and make my own statement ... some of this I hadn't much thought about when I started. I didn't even really know much about the direction it would take. I was never sure who would read, who would chose to follow and who would "stay the ride". These continue to remain unknowns.

... Musings from a Distance ...

Occasionally, the real and the virtual meet in one place. Yesterday was such a moment. A friend, whom I have mentioned before, stumbled across this space and mentioned it in conversation. Should he chose to visit again, then this is my dedication.

Interestingly I have always been interested in the human chain of connection. When I think of many known people who's names appear in the media and so on, I often trace a connection with them in the usual six, (or even less) degrees of separation (the "Human Web"). E.g. I know of someone, who spoke with someone etcetera, etcetera.

There are many proponents of the idea of a "shrinking" world, but perhaps the architect was Frigyes Karinthy (Hungary, 1887 - 1938) who popularised the idea of six degrees of separation in his 1929 short story, Chains. Celebrity is one thing, but just ordinary people around the world are said to be just six people apart. If this is so, then the possibilities, and the responsibilities are much more significant than we first imagined perhaps.

More so in today's Internet age and with the advent of internet-based social networking (e.g. Facebook). It's rather ironic, because I, Tor_Khan am perhaps less the "Dark Prince" mystery blogger and someone the Reader knows about already. Maybe, therefore, my musings are not that distant ...

Tor_Khan تور خان

Fire and Brimstone

Natural events, inspire wonder, amazement and awe. A volcano erupts and the skies are laden wish ash, dust and a strange sulphuric beauty. A sci-fi moment for sure and a reminder that we are but tiny dots within the majesty of the universe.

Eyjafjallajokull, Iceland

a Reuters picture from Time Magazine

Soup of the Soup of the Bones of a Rabbit (2)

Part 2 of the story  ...

... The Bones of a Rabbit ....

"We are the neighbours of the villager who brought you the rabbit yesterday." The men looked expectant. The seemed to be sniffing the air, which was already telling of the soup Fatima was preparing. Remembering his treat of yesterday, the Hodja glanced quickly at their hands. Empty!

"Oh! A fine fellow is Hussein!" cried Nasr-ed-Din Hodja. "Hosh geldiniz - your coming gives joy. Any neighbours of his are welcome. Come in! Come in! Dinner will soon be ready and you shall see what good soup Fatima can make of the bones of the rabbit. A great cook is my Fatima!"

Fatima, hearing the voices, padded softly into the room and peered through her veil. As she left the room, there were sounds behind her which might have meant, "What fun to have guests again." Or the sounds might have meant something very different.

Soon Fatima brought in a tray with three steaming bowls of soup, thick with rice and vegetables and tiny shreds of rabbit meat. She set the tray before the three men and slipped out of the room. The Hodja talked as he ate, but somehow his stories did not flow with yesterday's enthusiasm. The men thanked him for the meal and went back to their village, to tell of the hospitality of Nasr-ed-Din Hodja.

The next morning, the Hodja went warily to answer a knock at the door. There stood two other villagers - strangers again.

"And why am I honoured with this call?" Nasr-ed-Din Hodja had already glanced at their hands and found them dangling empty at their sides.

"We are the neighbours of the neighbours of the villager who brought you the rabbit." The two men grinned hopefully.

Nasr-ed-Din Hodja blinked, then said, "Come in and share my humble meal."

The men walked in and squatted on the floor while the Hodja went into the kitchen. He poured a kettle of hot water over the spoonful that remained of yesterday's soup. He poured the liquid into bowls which he carried to the room where the men were waiting.

"Oh neighbours of the neighbours of the villager who brought me the delicious rabbit!" Nasr-ed-Din Hodja's cordiality was loud. "May you enjoy this soup of the soup of the bones of the rabbit."

One neighbour of the neighbour's of Hussein looked at his bowl of water in which two grains of rice swam beside a scrap of turnip. The other neighbour of the neighbour's of Hussein looked at his bowl of water in which to grains of rice swam with a shed of onion and a chip of carrot. Nasr-ed-Din Hodja made a great noise of emptying his bowl before he smiled his guests to the door ...

Soup of the Soup of the Bones of a Rabbit (1)

I love the stories and anecdotes of Mullah Nasr-ed-Din Hodja, the thirteenth century philosopher from Ak Shehir, Anatolia. The Mullah Nasr-ed-Din stories are known throughout the Muslim world and form an important part of the folklore and oral story-telling traditions. They began to appear in English print during the 19th century and can now be found in the public domain. (Click this link to download the set known as the Turkish Jester.) Here, I share the first part of an edited version of a story that appeared in Alice Geer Kesley's compilation from 1943. I've used this in class as part of a programme on World Literature and it never fails. Enjoy.

Soup of the Soup ...

"What a fine rabbit!" Nasr-ed-Din Hodja smiled as he took the plump rabbit that Hussein, the villager, held out to him. "I caught it especially for you!" Hussein's smile was as broad as the Hodja's own.

"Fatima! Fatima!" called Nasr-ed-Din Hodja. Pulling her scarf over her face, Fatima came bustling in from the kitchen.

"See what a feast Hussein has brought us!" the Hodja chuckled in anticipation of the good meal, as Fatima held out her hand for the limp rabbit. "I am asking him to stay and eat it with us. Cook it your very best!"

Left alone, the two men sat cross-legged on the floor and talked – at least, the Hodja talked and the villager listened. The Hodja knew it would be nearly two hours before the meal was ready, but what better way to pass two hours than to have a quiet listener. Nasr-ed-Din Hodja's voice droned on contentedly. There were stories of his childhood, of his school days, of his great exploits at the court of Tamerlane the Great, of the everyday news of his own city of Ak Shehir. There were his views of this, and that, and the other. Hussein, the perfect listener, knew just when to shrug his shoulders, to click his tongue, to wag his head, to rub hands together. The pungent fragrance of roasting rabbit floated about them.

At last the door opened and in scuffled the veiled Fatima with a huge tray of rabbit and pilaf and a big plate of thin bread. She set the food between the two men and went scurrying back to the part of the house where a woman belonged when there were guests. Breaking off bits of bread, the men curved them into spoons and scooped up great mouthfuls of the steaming pilaf and rabbit. "What a cook!" sighed Hussein. There was just the right touch of garlic, just the right sprinkling of pistachio nuts, just the right dryness of the rice.

"What a rabbit!" mumbled the Hodja, his mouth full to dripping. They ate until their loose girdles were as tight as drumheads. They polished their plates with their bread to get the last succulent bit. "There are still the bones left!" Nasr-ed-Din Hodja's said, rubbing his stomach. "Fatima's soups are as good as her pilafs."

They sat and had the soup until they could eat and drink no more. Hussein, drowsy and content went home to his village reporting to his neighbours how royally he had been treated at the home of Nasr-ed-Din Hodja.

The next morning, the Hodja was called to the door again. There stood two villagers - strangers. "Salaam, dear strangers ... What is your errand?" began the Hodja.

Part 2 here.

Bon Appétit - نوش جان

پُلاو
Pulao

Pulao is one of my favourites. It is made by cooking basmati rice in a broth-like sauce and can be made with lamb, chicken, beef or vegetables. Qabili Pulao is baked in the oven and topped with fried sliced carrots and raisins. Chopped nuts, chickpeas and potatoes may be added as well.

I am not the chef here, Dear Readers. The credit goes to the Mrs. Alhamdulilah I am well looked after, and this is her page.

It is Pashtoon tradition to share a meal. Please be seated on the dasterkhwan and join me.

Bon Appétit & نوش جان

Tor_Khan تور خان

The Art Of Manipulation

Propaganda. It's an art.

But it doesn't mean that it's any less conniving.

When I hear about some Mullahs on a UK Foreign Office tour of London it rouses my curiosity. The Mullahs are taken on-board the London Eye, where they recline, feet up, Afghan style and are treated especially well. I'm very happy for them and glad for once that Pashtoons are treated hospitably.

This does shape the visitors' opinions and when they hear of British Muslims for the first time, they learn that Muslims make up a part of the working social fabric of British society. The Mullahs are impressed. In southern Afghanistan, where there is poverty, it is perhaps not known so well that there are well-fed Muslims living in Europe. The Mullahs learn just enough to come away with the impression that British Muslims are well accommodated within British Society - free to worship and pursue their lives, and return with a message to Afghanistan that European and American forces in their country are good and are there to help.

The Foreign Office likes these types of Muslims when it serves their purposes.

But then, why do I, also Pashtoon and desiring to build bridges, not swallow this so easily?

A Very Different Reality

Perhaps, this is because it feels manipulative. I suspect that there is a deeper reason for allowing visiting Mullahs to come to Britain, especially at a time when many Brits probably feel saturated by the global Islamic presence. London is great; it's a city with lots to offer and remains one of my favourite places. Unlike the Mullahs, however, when I am in London, I have to push my way through the crowds and there is no special treatment. So a whistle-stop tour in a dynamic city as part of an official visit can create a rather superficial impression - this isn't the UK society that most Muslims that I know, are exposed to.

Consider the history - during my formative years, I came across a deep institutionalised prejudice that still shapes my thinking. This prejudice, which is built into the bricks and mortar of the social institutions we deal with daily, has still not gone away. The reality is that non-European migrants and their indigenous-born children have been at the centre of many discussions in the UK and not all favourable.

A 'Modern' Hysteria

I know what racism looks like; subtle racism, as well as overt and I know how unpleasant and damaging this can be. I am also aware that racism is primarily about ethnicity and that religious hatred is in truth, is a different thing. But look how they have come together.


The modern wave of post 9-11 anti-Muslim hysteria is traced back to an earlier time and I am deeply concious of how Muslims are continuously scapegoated for many of today's social ills. The UK is typical of its sisters in Western Europe in that Muslims have been ghettoised in the large parts to particular urban areas, often run down; where "white flight" is made up of that combination of racial prejudice and religious intolerance.

Divisions and Spoils

And then there is Afghanistan, where the military campaign is the physical front of the ideological racial and religious divide that I speak of.

President Hamid Karzai, speaks of it too, in an ever increasingly louder voice. If the Mullahs who visited London speak favourably of the military campaign in Afghanistan, then perhaps, this once, I can be forgiven for being a sceptic. There are, after all, many genuine concerns over the effectiveness of the foreign military presence, their behaviours and their governments' intentions.

Afghanistan is in need and no society is perfect. But I think it is particularly unfair to take people from a fatigued, war-torn society where a foreign military campaign is eyed with distrust and where development of social infrastructure is - lets face it - hardly without condition - to become the voice of that failing campaign. Favouring some hand picked Mullahs like this is highly manipulative and the British tactic of patronage and favouritism is how a small island nation managed to colonise half the planet.

Create the divisions and exploit the spoils.

It is an art. Though no less dishonourable.

Khyber Pakhtoonkhwa پښتونخوا

The announcement today to rename the North West Frontier Province (NWFP) to one of the names preferred by the Pashtoons is welcome news. There is still some debate about the nature of the name, but for now, Khyber Pakhtoonkhwa خیبر پښتونخوا is a name that represents a break from the colonial past when the territory was split by the British colonialists from Afghanistan and incorporated within the empire as the north west frontier of British India and a buffer to Russian influence.

پښتونخوا زما وطن
Pukhtoonkhwa, zama watan
Pukhtoonkhwa, my homeland

Tor_Khan تور خان