PEN Slovakia has
criticized the publication of a poem by Radovan Karadzic but the line
between myth-making and lying is a fine one
A pedestrian takes pictures of posters supporting
Radovan Karadzic in downtown Belgrade. Photograph: Andrej
Isakovic/AFP/Getty Images
It's tempting to use the news that PEN Slovakia condemned the publication of a poem by Radovan Karadzic to criticise PEN for failing to stick to its principles on freedom of expression: International PEN's statement
that "everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression"
doesn't sit easily with a PEN centre arguing that a 'poet' shouldn't be
published. But to reduce it to a simple censorship versus
freedom-of-expression debate does a disservice to PEN's extensive work,
and also evades larger questions of what to do about Karadzic's work,
and the appeal it still holds to those who see him as a hero. Although it's worth noting that national PEN Centres
are semi-autonomous within the organisation, the action raised
uncomfortable questions that are presumably the subject of much internal
debate. The last time many saw PEN's name in the news was when
Margaret Atwood, vice president of International PEN, pulled out of
Dubai's literary festival in February, expressing her dismay
at news that a novel with a gay protagonist had been debarred, although
she later appeared via videolink to participate in a discussion about
censorship. Do Atwood's actions contradict PEN Slovakia's position
on Karadzic's poems? Or, if PEN stands for "the freedom to express
ideas without fear of attack or…persecution", does this mean that
writers whose work incites persecution of others shouldn't be protected?
Perhaps it's not PEN's failure, so much as a larger, collective one,
that we're yet to figure out a clear position on hate speech in
'literary' works. Even if we don't agree with PEN Slovakia's decision -
and I'm not sure I do - it provides PEN with the chance to further
public debate about free speech specifically in relation to hate speech,
building on recent discussions in Dubai. Which leaves the more fundamental question of what to do with Karadzic's poetry. Although few would argue poetry can be used as evidence
at The Hague, Karadzic's poetry was part of a larger project of
myth-making, like glorifying the 1389 Battle of Kosovo to legitimise
claims of Serbian superiority. His poetry is also considered an affront
by some because it was still published (or merely republished, the
debate goes) even when the Serbian government vowed it was searching for Karadzic: one poem published in 2005 references a remote Montenegrin monastery where Karadzic was rumoured to be hiding. In his poems, Karadzic both rewrites nationalist myths and stitches himself into a mythologised modern history. One of many sad ironies is how Karadzic's name echoes the 19th century philologist Vuk Karadzic.
Vuk's compilation of the first Serbian dictionary and documentation of
Balkan stories means he is often hailed as the grandfather of modern
Serbian identity, a Balkan Goethe mixed with the brothers Grimm. But
his singular life, from his youth in the Serb revolt against the
Ottomans, to his involvement in the Illyrian movement,
and pan-Slav affinities against the Austro-Hungarian Empire, contains
the multitudes of regional identities that Radovan, and other extreme
nationalists on all sides, tried to destroy. And yet, Vuk
Karadzic, Radovan Karadzic and many PEN writers do engage in the same
ancient act: rewriting myths. A few years ago, aongside writers such as
Jeanette Winterson, Margaret Atwood contributed a novel, The
Penelopiad, to a publication series
on the subject of "myth". Atwood's sensitive reworking of the Odyssey
from Penelope's viewpoint was a testament to the vitality of rewriting
myth, and particularly its power to reclaim the 'lost' voices of
traditional history: wives, handmaidens, servants. Though often dark
and haunting, the fiction in the Myth series celebrated myth as a means
of resisting life's reduction to (patriarchal? Western?) history-book
'facts'.
Radovan Karadzic's myth-making doesn't contradict
this position, but explodes any cosiness there may have been in
occupying it, opening the uncomfortable idea that another word for
"myth" may be "lie". While Atwood rewrites myths to give voice to the
voiceless, other writers hold the power to rewrite myths to silence
those weaker than them. Perhaps the point PEN Slovakia raises is to
what extent we can distinguish between the two. Recent Balkan history,
perhaps more than anywhere, shows the damage myth-making can do, and
Radovan Karadzic drew power from his ability to spin poetry, of various
sorts, from historical half-truths. Can we celebrate the co-existence
of different 'versions' of truth, as the Myth series did, if some
writers' versions entail denying other histories, denying other nations,
and afterwards denying that systematic persecution took place? -------------------------------------------------------------------- Jill Starr Replies >>> -
Not wanting to merely reiterate duplicate freedom of speech arguments;
this is all I seem to read. I have other ideas on why Karadzic's
poetry should be published. It is supposed to be a matter of legal
fact in democratic countries no one ought have their speech and/or
writings curtailed, especially if that speech manifests itself in poetry
which I will discuss shortly. However, it is true, in the United
States, any speech used to incite violence and danger is considered to
be unconstitutional and illegal. For example if I were inside a
movie theater and knowing there was no fire I began yelling 'Fire,
Fire," inciting people in the theater to run and trample each other
causing alarm and harm to the movie goers, this type of speech is
illegal in the United States of America under law. In the case of
Karadzic's poetry however, first of all as said previously, he is yet to
be found guilty, so, to say his poetry is publishing a 'war criminal'
which is objectively inciting violence is a weak legal argument if any
at all. Particularly, in the case of poetry, those who write poetry are well aware of the "poetic license." To
make a long legal article short, we can "surmise" what Dr. Karadzic
meant when he wrote "A Morning Bomb," but, words have many meanings in
poetry as poetic license dictates. And by such, any sound lawyer runs
into the legal poetic impasse and technicality if you will, of claiming
to be able to read Dr. Karadzic's mind if they say they can legally
claim he meant to incite violent acts by the writing of his poems. Also,
from a scholarly standpoint we read many writings written by lots of
people whom are controversial in studies of social sciences i.e.,
Hitler, the KKK in America, Russian Royalty, Ivan the Terrible,
Kissinger, Ceasar, etc...) Any one of these people can be said to
offend certain sectors of society but in college sociologists and
psychologists consider these scholarly writings educational in which
they can learn. I hope this sheds light on this legal topic, - >>>>>>>>>>>>
A Morning Bomb
Written By Radovan V. Karadzic Književna reč, May, 1974 (written in pencil on the back of the second page - RSV) Translated by Russell Scott Valentino
email this page A Morning Bomb At last I am lost to all benefactors,
I burn like a cigarette between neurotic lips,
while they look for me everywhere-I wait in the dawn’s ambush
for the enormous occasion of leaving it all once and for all,
all the wondrous possibilities the savior offers me:
I rush to drop a morning bomb on a lonely man-
like a biting line more delightless than a mood. On the hill a snatch of sleep and a glass of clear water wait for me,
a poison mushroom and a viper sharply sworn,
the clean closeness of the sky and a tense wind,
a blood-soaked relation in an ambush of pure death,
unforeseeable blue, Elijah’s stakes, windswept hilltops,
the deer-like fate of supple Cyclopses, a sure fate-
but I am carried away by the formula of nothingness, the idea of non-sleep,
I leap to drop a morning bomb that returns
amid the magic eye above town, in a professor’s happiness,
though my anxious sweetheart waits, along with a scholar’s life. I can look for myself in sad, empty spaces,
strangle the rebellion of my beast in my blood,
just as I find myself on the ceiling of a church-I can go to sleep,
or wake up pierced at dawn on the barroom’s altar,
I can share my solitude with the river that flows peacefully
filled with mythic fish and peace that is unattainable from without,
so much solitude that I seize it for myself alone and the evening,
and seek out stocks of gold, the secrets of manganite,
and come to love seeing right through the Earth’s crust,
mild towards all and as a gentleman at the end
peacefully resolve the mystery of mysteries, and then
all night on the square of darkness shine with good:
but I rush to drop the morning bomb of laughter
beneath the left breast of this perfected century. Or I could, all in robes, dream of Chinese rain,
lean my head against the moon goggling in the field
full of bluish star flowers, a noose of thoughts,
follow the bees buzzing, transparent, open to all
and, filled with the faith of the great magus, wait prone:
look-evening is falling on the Eskimo’s tongue, god shakes the fields,
a pair of lovers disappears behind the high school and a dog-
But I go into the magma of the night in anticipation
of dawn, to pour through all the hidden holes and into
all of it a morning bomb of laughter, a torrent of disbelief. Radovan V. Karadzic Književna reč, May, 1974 (written in pencil on the back of the second page - RSV) Translated by Russell Scott Valentino
email this page Karadzic’s Poems Untitled (Prepisi se u moju novu veru svetino/Convert to my new faith crowd...) .....For Izlet Sarajlic Convert to my new faith crowd
I offer you what no one has had before
I offer you inclemency and wine
The one who won’t have bread will be fed by the light of my sun
People nothing is forbidden in my faith
There is loving and drinking
And looking at the Sun for as long as you want
And this godhead forbids you nothing
Oh obey my call brethren people crowd
What to call you how to call you
You deaf amorphous dough
Oh I free my foolish people in vain
From you harvest bitter harvest
Oh obey my call brethren people crowd
Convert to my new faith oh crowd while there is time
Because at the final stroke I am preparing
Things will call out their vague sense to me in fear
And only the most wretched who hope for salvation
Will be silent and seek for shades of mercy in my voice
Grasses will call out to me
This god will not perish shamefully
For he is real and he can crush us
And so believe the grasses because those who are silent
Arc those only ones to know the dreadful secrets
Which will blur to death the now blurred world
Oh obey my call brethren people crowd
What to call you how to call you
You deaf amorphous dough
Oh harvest bitter harvest Untitled (Ovaj kobni cas se ukrutio i propeo do nebesa...)(This fateful hour stiffened and reached the sky...) This fateful hour stiffened and reached the sky
Like a tree it now binds all existence in its branches
I am the cause of universal distress
A certain knight called Moses secretly fears me
From this fateful hour hours pass by upward like my head
And you are bound by some chilly
By some frosty terror
It’s only the snake-like world that changed-its dirty skin
For the moment
It is only I who sprouted from the Universe like the morning star
And the Universe blushed with envy and changed colors
It is only cowards eating their cowardice
And their non-existent strength
It is I speaking and burning
I won’t be silent after all
And let the crowd go to the devil past redemption
I’ll handle you in no time
And without much ado
And right at this moment
A tomcat shall peep at the neighborhood kitty through a chink
And two lovers
Shall stand by the first casket on hand
And kiss each other as I command Untitled (Jutra pola nema...) (Half the morning’s gone...) Half the morning’s gone.
Coming down the hills
A strong and strapping wolf
Bit half the morning off
And in his heart it went
Up to the hills, to the wilds.
Every thing wept afterwards.
Up there in the hills, in the wilds
With wolves round a fire there is fun
The morn feeds itself to the flames
Not letting it die down. Untitled (Naslucujem sunce da mi pravi ranu...) (I surmise the sun is wounding me...) I surmise the sun is wounding me
With its sharp malignant rays
I surmise the stars are healing me
I am the deity of dark cosmic space
A horned cow reveals a faithless goddess
Everything’s turned against me the one true god
I created the world to tear my head off
Judges torture me for insignificant acts
I am disgusted by the souls who radiate nothing
Like a small nasty puppy puny death
Is approaching from afar
I don’t know what to make of all these things
But I can’t stand the sight of you you file of scum
You file of snails
Well hurry up in your slime
Because if I can turn my words into thunder
I can turn you into a pool of stagnant water
Now that I am in this crazy fervor of mine
I could do just about anything
So your stupid rotten your vain souls
Wouldn’t stare at me with their stupid peaceful eyes
If you take women out of the equation
I don’t even know what
These slimy creatures are for
What all their words are for
What their lectures are for
I demand and I want just as God rightfully wants
The immediate abolition of all things
Without a purpose and with no beauty
Without a purpose
And no soundness
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