Studs Terkel: Človeški glas

Kje je človeški glas, vox humana - vzkliki, dretje, tiho govorjenje, šepetanje? Zapuščal sem letališče, bilo je v Atlanti. Saj veste, zapustiš izhod in izbereš vlak, ki te popelje v želeno smer. Povzpnem se nanj. Smrtna tišina. Nekaj ljudi sedi in nekateri stojijo. Od tam zgoraj zaslišiš glas, ki je nekoč bil človeški, a nič več. Zdaj govori kot stroj: "Smer 1, Fort Worth, Dallas, Lubbock." Takšen glas.
Ravno tedaj, ko se vrata že skoraj zaprejo, pnevmatična vrata, prihiti mlad par, jih komaj še odpre in vstopi. V sekundi tisti glas od zgoraj spregovori: "Zaradi poznega vstopa, zamujamo 30 sekund." Ljudje pogledajo tisti par, kot da sta ravnokar zagrešila množični umor. Par je čedalje manjši, saj veste.
Torej, poznan sem po svojem govorjenju. Sem gobezdav. In rečem: "George Orwell, tvoj čas je prišel in odšel!" Pričakoval sem smeh. Smrtna tišina. In zdaj gledajo mene. In sem skupaj s parom, mi trije, na Kalvariji na veliki petek. In potem rečem: "Moj bog, kje je človeški glas?"
In ravno tedaj, zagledam majhnega dojenčka. Morda je star leto ali nekaj takega. In ga vprašam: "Gospod ali gospa, kakšno je vaše mnenje o človeški vrsti?" In kaj dojenček naredi? Začne se hihitati. In rečem: "Hvala bogu, zvok človeškega glasu!"


Boljša in animirana angleška verzija na strani: http://storycorps.org/animation/the-human-voice/

TONZILI: Daniel Pennac: Gospodje otroci

Igor, Igor...
Ljubi Bog, kako sem vzgojil tega otroka, da je tako naiven? Moral bi bil... kaj? Mu že od vsega začetka povedati pravo resnico? O vsem? Mu izrezati srce že na začetku igre? Pest razuma in nič drugega? Niti najmanjše metafore? Da malo polepšaš gnusnosti? Da bi zamenjal muzeje z grobnicami? Ne, to je presegalo moje pedagoške sposobnosti... Po pravici povedano mu nisem mogel niti tega povedati, da sem umrl, ker so zašuštrali "tonzilektomijo" in mi zamenjali izgubljeno kri s smrtno tekočino! Niti tega mu nisem mogel povedati, da je nevarno, če pri mojih letih dobiš bolezen njegovih let, in da mogoče nikoli več ne bo videl očeta... Nisem se mogel obrniti k sinu z moškim realizmom zdravnika, ki me je postavil pred zid: "Mandlji pri vaših letih, gospod Laforgue, lahko operiramo, lahko vas pobere, včasih oboje..." (Dobesedno. Če mi kdo noče verjeti, mu dam naslov tega taktneža.) Ne, precej bolj mi je všeč kratek pogovor, ki sva ga imela z Igorjem, preden sem šel pod nož.
ON: Tonzili, očka?
JAZ: Nisi še nikoli slišal za tonzile?
ON: ?
JAZ: Niti pri državljanski vzgoji?
ON: O tonzilih, pri državljanski vzgoji?
JAZ: Ja. O tonzilih nekdanjih borcev, še nisi slišal?
ON: Aja, 14. julij!
JAZ: 14. julij, 8. maj, Dien Bien Phu, Alžirija, vse to, ja...
ON: Torej ti bodo operirali nekdanje borce?
JAZ: Ja, odstranili mi bodo nekdanje borce. Samo pomisli!
Vem, vem, nisem imel prav, ni bilo prav, bilo je v nasprotju z dobrim okusom, spoštovanjem , spominom, zastavo, zgodovino, razumom, tudi grdo do njegovega učitelja državljanske vzgoje, ki je mislil, da se Igor dela norca iz njega z zgodbo o nekdanjih borcih, ki jih bela roka pobija v očetovem grlu..., ampak mi je bilo figo mar, figo mar, ker sem vedel, da s tonzili nekdanjih borcev polagam v sinovo srce tempirano bombo krohotanja, ki bo izbruhnilo po moji smrti, če operacija spodleti. Nič se ne bi jezil, tudi če bi prenesel ta štos na potomce... Zakaj bi prezirali besedne igre. Najslabše so za najboljše prijatelje. To je nenapisana cena za prijateljstvo.

ZADNJE BESEDE: Alden Nowlan: THIS IS WHAT I WANTED TO SIGN OFF WITH

You know what I'm
like when I'm sick: I'd sooner
curse than cry. And people don't often
know what they're saying in the end.
Or I could die in my sleep.

So I'll say it now. Here it is.
Don't pay any attention
if I don't get it right
when it's for real. Blame that
on terror and pain
or the stuff they're shooting
into my veins. This is what I wanted to
sign off with. Bend
closer, listen, I love you.

Gluha Glava: Osip Mendelštam: Potovanje v Armenijo

Torej gluhost in nehvaležnost, ki smo ju podedovali po titanih …
Glava se glasi armensko „gluh'“, z mehkim „l“ in s kratkim pridihom po „h“. to pa je koren ruske besede „gluhost“. In jeftitsko? Prosim:
Videti, slišati in razumeti – vsi ti pojmi so se nekoč stekali v enem pomenskem svežnju. Na najglobljih razvojnih stopnjah besedja ni bilo pojmov, bili so samo smeri, strahovi, pohlep, samo potrebe in bojazni. Pojem glava se je izoblikoval v deset tisočletjih iz svežnja meglenih pomenov in gluhota je postala njeno razpoznavno znamenje.
Sicer pa boš, bralec, vse zameštral in ni na meni, da bi te poučeval.

Lepote realnega: Vid Pečjak: Drejček in trije marsovčki (ali: v prostem času berem otroške knjige)

Na Zemlji so jo videli kot naglo bežečo zvezdico. Mnogi so jo zamenjali za utrinek. Spomnili so se svojih neizpolnjenih želja, misleč, da se bodo uresničile, če bodo nanje mislili, dokler utrinek pada. Jožek si je zaželel konja, kot ga ima sosedov Lojze. Ta pa je hotel resničnega, živega konja, in ne lesenega, kot ga že ima. Jurček si je zaželel torto, Tinček pa kos potice, mlada indijska mamica pa je pomislila: „Da bi imel moj mali Krišna skorjico kruha!“ A tam daleč v črni Afriki je zamorček pokazal s prstom na nebo in rekel: „Kako visoko leti ta kresnica!“

Razmislek za vse družbe in vse religije: Would You Permit Me? by Nizar Kabbani

In a country where thinkers are assassinated, and writers are considered infidels and books are burnt, in societies that refuse the other, and force silence on mouths and thoughts forbidden, and to question is a sin, I must beg Your pardon, would you permit me?

Would you permit me to bring up my children as I want, and not dictate on me your whims and orders?

Would you permit me to teach my children that religion is first to God and not for religious leaders or scholars or people?

Would you permit me to teach my little one that religion is about good manners, good behavior, good conduct, honesty and truthfulness, before I teach her with which foot to enter the bathroom or with which hand she should eat?

Would you permit me to teach me daughter that God is about love, and she can dialogue with Him and ask Him anything she wants, far away from the teachings of anyone?

Would you permit me not to mention the torture of the grave to my children, who do not know about death yet?

Would you permit me to teach my daughter the tenets of religion and its culture and manners, before I force on her the Hijab?

Would you permit me to tell my young son that hurting people and degrading them because of their nationality, color or religion, is considered a big sin by God?

Would you permit me to tell my daughter that revising her homework and paying attention to her learning is considered by God as more useful and important than learning by heart Ayahs from the Qur'an without knowing their meaning?

Would you permit me to teach my son that following the footsteps of the Honorable Prophet begins with his honesty, loyalty and truthfulness, before his beard or how short his robe is?

Would you permit me to tell my daughter that her Christian friend is not an infidel, and ask her not to cry fearing her friend will go to Hell?

Would you permit me to argue, that God did not authorize anyone on earth after the Prophet to speak in his name nor did he vest any powers in anyone to issue "deeds of forgiveness" to people?

Would you permit me to say, that God has forbidden killing the human spirit, and who kills wrongly a human being is as if he killed all human kind, and no Muslim has the right to frighten another?

Would you permit me to teach my children that God is greater, more just and more merciful than all the religious scholars on earth combined? And that his standards are different from the standards of those trading religion, and that his accountability is kinder and more merciful?

Would you permit me?

Bethlehem

Some of the people you meet around Bethlehem quote from the Bible, some recite from the Koran, some chant from the Torah. Some show you their fields, some point to their olive groves; some invoke history, some envision the future. Some pray with knees on the ground, some with foreheads on the ground, some with feet firmly planted but but with torsos turning and swaying. Some throw stones and some drive tanks and some wrap themselves with explosives. But when you get right down to it, when you boil away the hatred and the politics and the wars that have shaken the planet, the one thing most people are talking about, when it comes to Bethlehem, is land. A tiny scrap of land. A wind-scoured, water-starved, rock-strewn bit of ground.

(Michael Finkel, Christopher Anderson, National Geographic)