II : LX - LXVI Things Don't Change That Much (Unless We Do)

Ramazani = Ramadan

I often find fasting as an observation of a certain religion excruciatingly obscure. During Ramadan, the 9th month of Islamic calendar (it varies every year but happens somewhere around November), devotees refrain from eating, drinking, or any other means of pleasure from dawn to sundown. And then, described by our poet, is followed by a pomp of celebration at night, at least in the house of Ali Pasha.

People practice fasting across cultures and religions, and for the most part, consists of an endurable length and is followed by excessive consumption of food and alcohol when the "fasting" is over. It's hands down ironic and hypocritical if you ask me. Isn't moderation the key to finding enlightenment of the soul and getting closer to the spiritual awakening? Fasting is truly for the purpose of remembering the suffering and cherishing what we are bestowed by the world. It should be rewarding, spiritually and mentally, the result of which shouldn't be cancelled by wanton zest.

Sometimes things don't change for the better. There are women whose eyes are covered under black veils although their spirits are of rainbow colours. I remember watching Persepolis, in which through the perspective of an Iranian girl, we see a whole world crumble because of war and rotten traditions. A world dominated by male and a tyrannic government. There are images from the not-so-distant-history that can make your heart ache. 

People make sacrifices in life. In some religions sacrifices are considered the accumulated points for one's afterlife, as though the fasting, for example,  they accomplished during their lifetime will become feasts when they enter Elysium.

Women are defaced, considered possessions, objects of the men in power. They were deprived of their voices, their freedom of making choices in life, their individuality, their power of saying no. It's such sorrow, and simultaneously quite moving to see Islamic women who have taken up so much weight on their shoulders because of a life destined for them since birth. For a long time they have been creatures of pleasure when men needed them, they have been servants and slaves of the houses, yet have never been asked for when opinions are needed to be heard. There isn't any equality, for nothing has been questioned. Everything seemed so common, everything in place and life goes on. Those enslaved women don't even know they deserved much, much more.   

Ali Pasha's feast comes night after night as he sent to Byron many a rarities to be enjoyed. There had been exotic beauties and local tunes strange to foreign ears.  The old man is feared by all because of his status, not because of his personal strength. Tyrants enjoy their oppressions when the oppressed are ignorant of their fate. The most tragic society is not one that is in chaos, but one that seems calm, and discrepancies between classes becomes a norm.

In God's words they rule! Those tyrants never change. In the past it had been different religions: east and west, here and there. They tell their people that they were sent by the gods, and are divinely employed to be the dictators. Today those tyrants got other jobs. They runs corporations with net worth of multiple billions. There's less blood and violence, and they've also got  

There are pictures from the battlefields: the young and the absent minded, answering their calls of duty, picking up riffles and kill for the glory of their armors. They then go back to their mothers no longer children, but monsters with unimaginable pasts, or worse, if the war was taken by pride rather than shame.

There are pictures from the war zones: the young and the innocent, their faces stained by blood and dirt; they lie in the trenches, trembling with fear, with love for their homeland and hatred towards the enemies. On the other side, the a similar group of youth, darlings to their own mothers and siblings. Their only differences are the shapes of their helmets and the patterns on their coats.

Those pictures are still their today on CNN and BBC...

My macbook pro, like the chieftain's tower, is a shield between reality and elements of tragedies that seem so far away. These are the trophies of peace and crowns of silicon accomplishments.

Yet we hear gunshots and bombings from merely miles away, and people are calling out in pain and living in fear. The danger and destruction are closer than ever: a world partially maniac, partially depressed.

Childe Harolds are everywhere, watching the barbarians destroying the beautiful, all at loss what to do. There's a always another cycle of awakening and redemption – the ray of hopefulness is saying: it's time to pick ourselves up. Things will never change, until we write our own history.

II : L - LII The Importance of Being On the Road – Harold, Kino, and Pi

Underneath the canopy of the witnesses of history, you can't help but think about the world in an entirely different longitude. A young lord's idle journey across the ocean and continents, similar versions of which has been performed by aspiring youth everywhere trying to find themselves in the unfamiliar wilderness of foreign countries, found him a new understanding of the world as an entity, a living, breathing organization rather than an instrument that we exploit and excavate.

It's a dangerous occupation going on the road, truly going on the road, that is. A little tour in gap years on the cruise line, a merry-on-round with the comfort of luxurious inns and fancy entourages, those don't count. The act of putting oneself out and exposed to the world calls for courage and a lot of endurance. Many of those individuals are timelessly and universally admired, for they fulfilled a buried dream of most of us: to become more in tune with the world around us, to see more, to expand our lives and jump out of the mundane case we live in every day.

It's also a privileged occupation going on the road. How fortunate it would be to explore, whether you're put on the journey by choice or by chance. 

"There world is not beautiful," said Kino on her scooter, "therefor it is." I can't prove it, you just have to see it for yourself.

 

Harold, and Kino, and Pi. The three of them are of all different nationalities and beliefs, coming from idiosyncratic backgrounds and are put on the road by fate. Such is a new kind of monomyth: a hero's singular journey in pursuit of self-discovery. Harold saw mostly the ruins and skeletons of the past; his gear was a wealth of history, with which he discovered the similarities and conflicts between worlds, and understood the truth about what human destruction can do to civilizations.

Kino, on the other hand, was exiled from her hometown as a defiant. Determined to see the world instead of being confined in the reclusive village she grew up in, refusing to comply with traditions, she had to go on a path less trotted, hiding her identity. In the story, Kino only stays three days, two nights in each city she passes so that she wouldn't get attached. It's a giant sacrifice not having attachment in life. Harold, disillusioned with his previous situation and aspirations, made similar convictions. In comparison to Harold's relatively easy journey, with entourage and what not, Kino's journey involves with more solitude and calls for independent decisions, and of course, a lot of will power to keep going. 

"The world isn't beautiful, therefor it is. " This sums up what Kino found from her journey. What she found is the imperfection of the world: the evil side of human nature, the conflict-prone societies, the never-ending crimes and vices; yet there's also the angelic side of humanity. This turned out to be a philosophical enlightenment. The peculiar customs and strange encounters Kino had on the road, metaphorically indicates the different cultures in the world. There's no way we can understand them all, but we should still try to accept them. Like the different instruments in a symphony making different sounds individually. They would only create harmony when everyone involved realizes, and honour the diversity amongst themselves.

 

The third solitary hero we have here is Pi, the young Indian child who spent mouths alone in the ocean, battling with his fear and struggling to find ways to co-exist with Richard Parker the tiger.  The tiger is the primal force of destruction. Pi had to be constantly alert so that he doesn't get pull into despair. Harold's journey is more about the past, the natural history of human's interaction with nature; Kino is making an anthropological discovery along the road, going from one fantastical town to another, revealing the raw portraits of an ensemble of the ugly and the cruel. Pi is met with a different kind of challenge. He's making connection with the entire universe through his journey, the only purpose of which was actually to survive! 

 

Yann Martel's novel was more about the strength of spirituality than a real journey in which the hero experience different areas of the world. Although the physical dangers Pi encountered had been incredibly realistic, his journey is the most inward one amongst all three.

Harold, as the literary avatar of Lord Byron, believed in the Greek Muses, sought after the truth of history through poetry. Kino, deprived of her innocence by reality, believed her own will and chased after the freedom of carrying out her own destiny. Pi, prays in all languages believed in the diversity of religions – for him, God is more of a state of mind, an attitude rather than a physical being. The solitary journeys they lead bend time and dimension, connecting those three characters. It's a temping business going on the path of self-discovery. Dangerous, mentally draining and might still eventually leave you completely unfulfilled, yet, its siren song still attracts pilgrims everywhere.

It takes a lot of courage to go on, but the importance of being on the road makes the vices seem ridiculously trivial.

I : LXXXIX - XCII Spain: A History of Violence

The Spaniards, the French and the Dutch all helped America during the Revolutionary War. On the 3rd of Sep. 1783, The Treaty of Paris ended the tedious war that crossed several continents and prolonged for almost a decade after United States had already declared its independence on 4th of July, 1776, the glorious date that you're supposed to remember as long as you're a citizen of planet earth and believe in liberty of humanity. Anyway, it almost seemed to me that the American Revolutionary War inspired the French Revolution, which broke out as early as in 1791, although most of us attributed the year of 1793 of more importance during the progress of the war, during which a young Napoleon Bonaparte proved his worth for the first time. 

Everything that happened was connected, dare I say, especially since the world is getting smaller as men's ambition and thirst for power grows infinitely bigger, and of course, communication is made more convenient. The rise of Lady Liberty indubitably influenced the entirety of western civilization. (The statue physically rose in 1886 but since it's commemorating 1776 in the first place, let's pretend that Lady Liberty had already been there in spirit.)

A modern personification of United States (Columbia) during WWI 

Columbia had been the name for a land with which we associate freedom, after the guy who discovered her of course, Christopher Columbus, whose accomplishment initiated the Spanish colonization of the new world. 

So why is that part of the history relevant to our subject of discussion now? Obviously there's the connection of the Spanish Empire, but it's far more than just a name. The War of Pyrenees, or better known as the Great War, pitted the first coalition during the French Revolutionary Wars. After the initial outbreak in January, France got in full on attack mode and in two months' time, decided to break up with her long-term-ally Spain. Spain was miserably defeated. 

Francisco Pizarro

There's almost a bitterness in the poet's tone. Francisco, Gonzalo, Juan and Hernando, those are the names of the Pizarro brothers, their reign in Peru was quite short (1531-1538) but still a major part in the Spanish conquest of the new world, Quito (The Royal Audience of Quito) being a part of it, was established in 1563, ruling most parts of Ecuador, northern Peru, southern Columbia and some part of Brazil. 

And now? Spain is under attack! It's all cause and effect says the poet. 

There are three major battles mentioned in Stanza 90, all of which violent and none can draw a conclusion to the never-ending conflicts. Wellesley gradually becomes a name almost as big as Napoleon, who would eventually defeat the legendary French modern Achilles, Byron's personal hero.

• Battle of Talavera Think France, Spain and Britain as three gambler in Vegas. No matter what the statistics say in  the end, the biggest winner will always, did I say ALWAYS, be the house. Death was hosting the game this time, seizing his prize from all sides, with France losing the most at the battle of Talavera. Previously I mentioned this battle in The Inglorious Three, with Byron's descriptive and heart wrenching stanzas (around XLI) telling the tale of devastation.

• Battle of Barrossa This was a pointless one: that day in March 1811, the ally of Britain, Portugal and Spain trying to lift the siege of Cadiz against France and the battle of Barrossa broke. Technically they won, according to numbers and what not, but Cadiz remained under French control until more than a year later. French Marshal Claude Victor was even able to bargain a partial victory. Of course in war if the two sides both won it also meant that they both lost. Again, the grave played the house.

• Battle of Albuera Elaborated in stanza XLIII, (again, reference The Inglorious Three) the battle of Albuera was called the bloodiest of all during Peninsular War. Not only did it fail to lift the siege of Badajoz, it wounded the relationship between Spain and Britain, for it was said that Britain didn't play hard enough.

Marshal Claude Victor

All those struggles and all those lives lost, sill Spain didn't get her freedom and peace. It's such a tiresome and emotionally draining thing to do looking at the timeline of the war, for you see how people just so too far and plant so many seeds of evil over something rather trivial.

It is very hard to look at things the same way again after you've read lots about history. Sometimes, most of the time, we repeat the same mistakes our ancestors did. All the lost glory of past civilization was the cost of a transient vanity.

For Childe Harold, this has been a trip of personal growth. At this point, the boy who lamented the fall of his family estate is thinking about something much bigger. When you've climbed mountains and watched the rise and fall of nations, you would start to realize the frivolity of what you thought you held so dear.

I : LXXXV - LXXXVIII Blindly, They Fought On

On 5th of Feb. 1810, the French started bombarding Cadiz and the Siege of Cadiz continued until 24th of Aug. 1812. The fortification of this port city proved to be so strong. Those walls seemed to be invincible! Surrounded by three arm forces, Cadiz stood still, or at least, she held on for a long time. The French almost lost hope of ever taking this place. 

Map of Cadiz in 1813.

"War even to the knife!" A common mistranslation of the laconic phrase "guerra y cuchillo", General Palafox's respond to French invaders' demand during the brutal second siege of Saragossa "paz y capitulacion"(peace ans surrender). The phrase actually meant, concisely, "war and knife", the point being, they will defend till the last drop of blood. 

General Palafox painted by Goya

It was uneasy for the allied force to lift the siege, as the British didn't quite trust the Spanish. Of course, the Spanish didn't give up, hence winning Byron's high regards here. 

There's again, a time lapse in the mentioned events here. The author explored the city of Cadiz in 1809 when he witnessed the unforgettable bullfight. The siege happened a year after, and didn't commence until after the poem was published. When he was drafting the first canto of Childe Harold, Byron would have known about the struggle and hold-off between Anglo-Spanish defense and French assailers in the city of Cadiz. The ruthless fight between the noble looking matadors and the enslaved beast, is definitely similar to the people of Spain who's in a rather similar situation. 

Since his youthful years spent riding pony and reading a formidable amount of books in Aberdeen, Byron had been drawn to history. Of course, his lament on people's lack of perspective wouldn't make too much sense to those Spaniards in trouble. They couldn't do anything but picking up their knives and protect their families. No matter what era it is, war never ceases to cause unnecessary deaths. It's a vicious cycle that most of us just refuse to admit. 

The reality is, the human race is not very responsible when we take actions. The savage acts of destruction and barbarism leaves us barren lands, and a dejected sight of mortifying remains of our own kind. So many times have people of enlightenment stood and sigh in front of ruins of past generations, yet the more important question is: how do we break this behavior pattern?

I : LXVIII - LXXIV Before the Killing

I could only imagine how the air would thicken before a bullfight. What an act of savage and grace, exciting and dreadful, sacred and barbaric. How ironic it happened to be the sabbath, and this city is giving the gods in all the glory, a competition between man and beast, a struggle till the last breath.

The arena is full, the bull restless, the energy spouting like blood, and you hear the roaring though uncertain whether it's from the magnificent animal, or the resonance and echoes of the crowd's breathes and thoughts.

arena before the fight

It's something insatiably beautiful and sad, for you know the fight goes on until one side of the opponents is dead. 

The sabbath, in a religious sense, is the 7th day in a week, god's sacred day of rest. Depending on which religion you're in, the timing would be different. Here the poet is indicating Christian sabbath, though in Judaism, sabbath starts after sundown on Friday.

It's strikingly a cultural thing, for a bullfight in Spain is like a religious gathering in, well, for example says the poet, in London. Nobilities from all directions swarm in from their country houses, their carriages jamming the streets, to the cathedrals they go. 

Yet here in this arena it's a celebration of men's conquering of nature, in finest apparels and noblest agility. Something Byron wouldn't be able to do if I may add, which is possibly why he got so overwhelmed and fascinated by this beauty, or terror, depending on your point of view. 

There's no differences between the votaries of god: young, old, rich, poor, their confessions alike, forgiven before the altar, similarly amongst the audience of a bullfight. They are witnessing a crime, committed by men, yet the killers will be rewarded for their courage and heroism. Isn't it ironic if you really think about the nature of the fight?

All is silent before the killing. Imagine, outside of the area the streets would be empty. Everyone you know would be sitting inside of this round, heated, tormenting space overlooking a stretch of crimson coloured earth. The battle between the matador and the bull will soon begin. 

You'd be surprised to find out that the audience consists mostly of ladies. It's an exhibition of strength and agility of men, to be sure, indeed an attraction and a fantastical scene. 

The arena is a power source ready to release its energy at any time now. It's almost as though nothing else in the universe mattered, and all is focused on the centre of this space: the matador dressed in gold and embroidery; the bull, o that magnificent creature, is a spiritual embodiment of what is expected of the matador. The two of them, discrepant in size and actual strength, yet equivalent in their bosting aura.

It's been documented in memoirs that Byron didn't enjoy the bullfight although inspired by it. I cannot imagine what kind of emotional turmoil he'd been in during the show, but I believe that he would see more of himself, not in the matador  but rather in the bull, panting and prancing underneath the gazing of an entire universe. There about to be bloodshed and injury. Just like what his fame did to him, which exploded too quickly when he was mere 24.

the Matador - from Charles Lisanby

Vicente Blasco Ibanez wrote a Blood and Sand (Sangre y Arena). The entire act of a bullfight is almost a reflection of Byron's life, which had been teaming with struggle and mess, metaphorically presented in a limited space: it has more symbolism but much more exciting and concise. I'm not certain whether he enjoyed much of the act, but he surely understood all and sympathized with both. Maybe more with the bull, for the matador represents more of his vanity, yet the bull, his truth identity.